Scourge
by rtwofan
Summary: Seven months post-Partial Eclipse: As Sylar begins to get settled into his new life, a force of evil far more terrible then he could ever imagine begins to weave itself into his life. And while Peter and Claire rise again, so does the dawning armageddon.
1. The Rising Dawn and The Quiet Men

Prologue

**Title:** Scourge  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** Seven months after Partial Eclipse_: _As Sylar begins to get settled into his new life, a force of evil far more terrible then he could ever imagine begins to weave itself into his life. And while Peter and Claire may rise again, so does the dawning armageddon.  
**Pairings:** Peter/Claire, Sylar/Niki and various other minor pairings.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything except for Orson and various random OCs.

The day has arrived and God am I nervous, lol ) Hope you guys enjoy it, even with it's slightly slow start. I promise I'll post the first four or five chapters quickly so that we can get into the story quick and painlessly )

**Prologue**

"**The Rising Dawn"**

There was a change of seasons occurring in Arlington Cemetery. Half-melted snow stayed blanketed by a humid fog as the brink of winter just began to wipe out the remnants of fall. A man in black waded through the thicket of air and slush, blending in with the early dawn. The only things visible in the shadows were two unforgettable blue eyes which rested under his wisps of obsidian hair.

The stranger's purpose was an enigma to all others in the graveyard. Of course, the night watchmen gave him the benefit of the doubt. Relatives of the dead were known to pace about the headstones in the owl's hours. Funny how longing works like that. It doesn't care who you are or even the time of day. It simply attacks without warning, almost like a parasite, releasing a maelstrom of heartache and reckless need upon its unfortunate host.

But what the guards passed as an act of pining was actually much less innocent. This man had no family or friends, no dead relatives, and more importantly, his heart was not even capable of grieving. His reason for being, for haunting this place during the 'graveyard shift,' was something that the human mind could never understand.

He _was_ searching for something, though. Those lingering, almost electricazure eyes scanned over each and every little white cross, looking for two names side-by-side. It was the only way he could truly believe the rumors that had been flying around him for the past few months. And once the legend he sought after became proven to him as fact, the man in black could finally commence a particular set of plans that had been laid out_ so _many years ago.

Arlington was not only a place for soldiers; it was a place for heroes_. _And where else would two beings that had saved the world be buried? Where else would he find proof that the road was clear for him and his comrades to seize?

The man paused before a pair of crosses near the end of the row. They looked no more intricate of less-weathered than the others. After all, every hero was "equal", which was one of the main reasons why every grave marker in Arlington was exactly identical.

But no, the man had a feeling about _these_ two. He had to squint to see the names on this dark side of the cemetery, the part that the sunrise hadn't quite reached yet. If he was capable of emotions, he almost would have felt pity for the two souls basked in night on the wrong side of the hill. No matter how hard the makers of Arlington tried, there still was no possible way to keep things all fair among heroes.

Because some heroes truly were greater than others.

When his blue eyes finally adjusted to the light, what he saw, what he _read _rather, made him smile a tad to himself. A cruel and twisted little smirk that made the flowers around him wilt.

Because it was true. The myth, the rumor…it was all factual stone, right as the first step of the apocalypse was about to begin.

**Chapter One**

"**The Quiet Men"**

Sylar gazed down at his wrists. They were free of barcodes and ink, but one still bore a rash from the tattered watch band he used to wear. He'd always had that broken watch on the wrong wrist since the day he woke up in the New York sewers. Though, Sylar was left-handed, so 'wrong' for him was normal for most.

"How's your job been?"

Sylar rubbed his forearm, eyes downcast. He shrugged. "It's alright. Monotonous but…fun sometimes."

"And your relationship with your girlfriend?"

"Still going okay."

"Things in general are…well?"

A terse nod and a shift of two shoulders. "Sure."

"'Sure' is a copout of 'yes,' Gabriel. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Sylar rubbed the rugged burn on his wrist again. It was itching more than usual. "I…I don't think so."

He wasn't much of a timid man in the wake of people he could trump. But something about this skeeving shrink with the tortoise shell glasses and Goodwill tweed _intimidated _him. Or rather, the questions scared him more than the mouth which spoke them.

"Dear man, it's been two months since you first came to see me," Doctor Knox sighed and set down his mysterious clipboard. "And so far, the only squeak of information you've let out is that you've lost your twin brother. At first I wanted to let you set your own pace of healing, but I'm growing anxious. Gabriel, you _must _open up with me at some point. Tell me something, anything, no matter how small. I can work with that, but I can't work with _nothing._"

_What a lovely 'therapist' you make, _Sylar thought sardonically, as he turned his head and gazed upon the San Francisco bay. Knox had a wonderful view from his skyscraper office. It was one of the few reasons that Sylar kept coming to these ridiculous sessions.

Oh, he'd almost bailed several times. But every time Sylar tried to tear himself away from the human pest named Doctor Knox, he came to regret it. Feelings of depression sunk into him as he was an emotional sponge. The lone twin sometimes thought with a bitter chuckle, if he was feeling daring, that _this is what it must have been like for Peter. _

"I just need a little more time, please," he replied with perfectly faked civility. "I promise I'll come around in the next month or so. But you have to understand- this time of year if hard for me."

Knox's eyebrows quirked up, his dull eyes beginning to spark on the edge of discovery. "Hard?"

Sylar moistened his lips, before revealing in a mouse-like whisper, "Our birthday is in three weeks."

xxx

Sylar ditched the cable cars and green bikes, opting for a pair of sneakers to get him home. He didn't exercise much, and went out in the sun even less, so a nice walk would probably do him some good. Niki was starting to joke that he looked like a vampire- gaunt, pale, stoic. Even insomniatic sometimes.

The first few months in Frisco had been fine. Sylar went through the grievance process almost like it was a routine or a schedule. He was emotionless about it, just following the steps to a tee and letting his mind release the past.

Yet he forgot about his_ heart_ along the way.

Not long after his mantelpiece became decorated with mementos of his fallen friends, Sylar's soul began to dissolve like tissue paper in the rain. Food tasted like cardboard, so much so that he'd give up eating altogether if he could handle the stomach pains. And even with Niki held in his arms as he lay in bed, sleep fought a never-ending war with him, liking to play hooky when he needed it the most.

Luckily, one of the few things that hadn't suffered was his job. Sylar worked in the back genealogy room of a library: a quiet oasis with no people to interact with. Only lots and lots of records and censuses to stamp and label, label and stamp. It was this meticulous detailed work that Sylar truly loved. Work that took his mind off Peter and Claire, and work that could deal with yawns, bloodshot eyes, and the wisps of grey hair forming around his temples.

A gust of wind slapped him in the face and blew back his scarf. It didn't get too terribly cold here in California, but a December chill was still brewing on the horizon. Sylar could hear a cold front frothing hundreds of miles away, and he made a mental note to wear a thicker jacket tomorrow.

The walk home required one tiresome stretch up a particularly steep hill. Sylar internally groaned, but trooped on anyway, distracting himself with all the festive decorations that were popping up. His mouth tilted into a slash. He'd always celebrated the holidays in the past, whether it was Christmas with Peter (the Catholic of the family), Hanukah with Molly Walker, or Dwhari with Mohinder. This year, however, Sylar wondered why he planned on celebrating anything at all. He didn't have much faith anymore, let alone any set religion. With a bold face he'd consider himself an atheist, but the occasional wonderment of life etc. made him declare mere agnosticism deep down.

Still, even though Sylar didn't have much of a companionship with the God, or _a _God, he still slipped into the nearest electronics store and bought a Christmas present for Micah Sanders.

xxx

Apartment 909 on Albemarle smelled like grease and shake-and-bake when he got home. His smile was weakly warm but well-meaning as he hung up his messenger bag on the coat rack. Niki was a great cook, as long as the recipe required her to fry something. Sylar loved it all to death, but could still foresee his arteries bitch-slapping him for it in about twenty years.

"Baby? You home?" hollered a warm voice from inside the kitchen. Sylar immediately smiled with a tinge of remorse. Each time he heard Niki's voice, he couldn't help but miss Claire's. Which made him all the more thankful for every second he had with his slender girlfriend.

"In here," he replied, trying not to show his weariness. Sylar slipped into the kitchen without a sound, content to wrap his arms around Niki from behind. He buried his face in her hair, which smelled of paprika and bell peppers. It wasn't really an unpleasant scent; just an unusual one to whiff of a forty-year old beautiful blonde.

Niki's throat clenched in a low, demure moan. She rubbed one of Sylar's wrists, which crossed over her chest, and with some flexibility, managed to kiss him on the cheek.

"Not this isn't comfortable, but I'm gonna burn the chicken if you don't let go."

The younger man smiled against a sensitive spot below her ear. "You really don't have to cook dinner. I could have picked something up on the way home."

Niki frowned and shimmied out of his arms. She set down her spatula and looked at him piercingly mischievous eyes. "Is that some sort of roundabout _man _way of saying that my cooking sucks?"

He could tell she was prodding him in mere gentle jest, so he wasn't alarmed. Sylar simply shrugged and tucked a lock of hair behind Niki's ear, giving him a clearer view of her face. God how he wished she'd pin it back more often. It wasn't in her eyes or anything, but he would much prefer for_ nothing_ to be obscured. Alas, though. Relationships were about giving and taking, and _something _had to give.

"No. But you've got work in an hour," he spoke honestly. "I don't expect you to be June Cleaver. Why don't you just rest?"

"Aww," Niki grinned. "Is this your inner Feminist coming out?"

Wit was one of Sylar's stronger points, and he usually had comebacks instantly. Yet that one actually took a few seconds to reply to. He frankly had no idea what to declare.

"I'm just saying that maybe some days I'd like to treat _you _to something," he answered slowly and wisely, earning a knowing peer from Niki.

"I know," she smirked. "But I don't mind being the housewife every once in a while. Its _normal,_ Sylar, and it gives me something to do during the day. Besides, this way, I can spend some time with you before going off to work."

He chose not to reply this time. Niki mentioned that they could bond over dinner, and that definitely wasn't something Sylar was about to argue with.

She gave him an innocuous kiss to the cheek and crossed to the other side of the kitchen. Sylar watched on, entranced, at the way her arm muscles popped when she reached up to pull a set of plates down from the shelf. He often forgot that Niki was capable of ripping men apart with her bare hands, but this served as a half-alluring, half-eerie reminder.

The following fifteen minutes slipped through Sylar's fingers and, unsure of how he'd even gotten there, he was now sitting across from his beloved Niki at dinner. The widow's mouth ran on about Micah, yet all Sylar could hear were familiar syllables and waves of air that were actually starting to numb his mind. Every day was turning into the same Groundhog Day, very habitual, and it was easy to let things all blur together. Even when Sylar tried to log every grain of his life into his memory, to not take any moment with anyone for granted, the outcome was still rather inevitable.

"How was your day, sweetie?"

"Um…" Sylar may have adored Niki, but he _loathed _that question. It was right up there with "How are you feeling?" and "Are you okay?" Not that he held it against his dear lover. She only meant well, but that still didn't make it any easier for Sylar to counter the unanswerable.

"Okay," he shortly responded, reeling in the wild horse of irritation stampeding and buzzing in the back of his brain. "Knox was fun."

Niki beamed sympathetically, picking up on the sarcasm. "There _are _other therapists in San Francisco, Sylar."

Sylar dragged his spoon through his rice pilaf, parting it like the Red Sea. He sniffed a bit and sighed, before putting down the utensil and rubbing his face with a large hand. "No use switching now. He's just starting to get somewhere with me."

His girlfriend's eyes danced with a newfound spark of interest. "Really? That's great!"

"I suppose. There's really no way to avoid it though. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look…everything reminds me of them."

Niki reached across the table and covered his hand. "It's gonna be a rough month for you, but then it'll all be over and we can start a new year with a clean slate. It'll be a lot better. I promise."

The lanky man gave her a half-hearted smile. "I know." He turned his hand so that her slender fingers rested in his open palm. "And I've always got you and Micah."

"When he's not playing video games," the single mother smirked, glancing over at their front door. More specifically, she was peering in the direction of her old apartment. Micah celebrated his eighteenth birthday shortly after Niki moved in with Sylar. Therefore, the teenager had a whole apartment to himself, while his mother and Sylar shacked up across the hall. It was a pretty sweet deal in Micah's eyes, when he didn't let his curious brain think about what Sylar and Niki were doing in the other abode.

Yet despite the "Stacey's Mom" aspect of the whole situation, Micah really was overreacting. Niki and Sylar were anything but serious. They slept in the same bed, yet they'd never slept _together. _They hadn't even exchanged "I love you"s, though the three words were often on the tip of Sylar's tongue, waiting to be confessed.

Simply, such an absolutely normal relationship was offbeat for a man like Sylar. A man who'd seen nothing before his eyes but either one night stands or soul mates. Never in his memory could he recall a steady partnership, one with baby steps and casual dates, and hand-holding before the love-making. In the society around him, most people jumped into bed at the first chance.

Niki glanced at their antique clock above the fireplace, and Sylar's eyes followed hers. Except while she was checking out the time, his gaze fell to Peter and Claire's urns, their pictures, and everything else that decorated his mantelpiece. And when he saw Peter's silver ring- Angela Petrelli's old engagement ring which she gave him on his sixteenth birthday- Sylar felt even more stuffiness in his ribcage.

He barely noticed Niki getting up across from him, a fourth of her dinner still on the plate. She crossed the room and grabbed her coat, before planting a quick kiss on Sylar.

"I'm sorry I couldn't finish dinner," she apologized, cringing as she headed towards the door. "But Chile's waits for no one."

"I understand," he replied gently, still feeling down from seeing Peter and Claire. "What time will you be getting in?"

"Oh, really late," Niki said, biting her bottom lip. "I'm closing up tonight."

"Again? That's three times this week."

"I know, I know. I'll talk to them about it, I swear. See you tomorrow?"

Sylar nodded, and finally got a giant burst of courage and timing and everything-

"I lo-," he began as she began to disappear through the doorway. However, the blonde failed to hear his half-stated sentiment, which was barely above a whisper. She simply closed the door behind her and left Sylar utterly alone for the night. Alone with a table full of dirty dishes and lips that could still feel her touch.

xxx

One of the most noticeable things about Dr. Knox's waiting room was the way it _smelled. _Sylar hadn't had much experience with doctor's offices, or poking and prodding, or sterile scents, but there _was _something about Knox's digs that…gave him a sense of abnormality.

Then again, maybe it was just because his pattern was broken. Sylar was always penciled in for the first session of the day, and every time, the doctor was precisely prompt. Yet the week after Niki and Sylar's 'bonding dinner,' on another boringly ordinary Wednesday, Knox was actually absent for the first time.

Sylar put aside his magazine and stepped up to the receptionist's desk, his eyes glancing disdainfully at wall clock. It read a quarter past ten, a good fifteen minutes after Sylar's appointment was scheduled to begin.

"Excuse me," he said to the secretary in a low voice, feeling suddenly embarrassed as everyone waiting in the hollow room immediately looked up at him.

Sylar swallowed and stood more rigidly. "Has my appointment been changed or something, because-,"

"Oh no, dear." the buxom woman smiled, showing overly bleached teeth. "He's just running late. No need to fret."

Sylar's frown deepened. "Well, why did he decide to leave so late if he knew-."

The woman's gaze turned from helpful to sharp in the blink of an eye, shutting Sylar right up. He sighed and left the desk with his dignity stomped on by a five foot tall woman in scrubs who distantly reminded him of Reba, his old landlord from Boston.

"No matter, comrade," drawled a voice from beside Sylar as he sat down. "The old-timer would be late for his own funeral. You've just been lucky thus far."

Gabriel looked to his left and saw a pale, raven-haired man two seats down, curled up and boredly reading the daily paper. The man tilted his head and stared back, a ghost of a smirk curving up on his dark lips.

"Perhaps. I've only been here three times," Sylar replied emotionlessly. He half-hoped that this would cause the other man to go back to his readings and to leave him the hell alone.

But a part of Sylar wanted to know a bit more. After all, this stranger was dressed awfully nice to be going to a shrink- fancy black slacks, a crisp dress shirt (though untucked), and a tailored black jacket. Plus, there was an aura about him that reeked of mystery and maturity and a wit that Sylar truly appreciated.

So it wasn't an entire shame when the intriguing man answered back, "Ah. I've been coming here a while. Just got my times changed, that's all. Afternoons weren't good for me anymore."

"I have to come in the mornings. I've got work later on today."

The stranger's eyebrows rose in mild interest, the interest of small-talk that somehow didn't feel small. He set aside his paper, crossed his legs, and turned to Sylar. "Oh yeah? And where would that be?"

"The library," Sylar replied with a nod, wishing he could be a bit more fascinating. But all he could come up with was, "I label things in the genealogy hall."

His acquaintance grinned with one of the most playful and attractive smiles Sylar had ever seen on a man. "Not bad. Next time I check out my grandmother's death certificate, I'll think of you."

Sylar let out a small, amicable laugh. "If my manners start to show, that is. I'm sorry; I've held back my name." He extended one of his large hands in offering. "I'm Sylar."

The younger man grasped Sylar's hand with slender, almost _brittle_ fingers, and the amnesiac was nearly afraid he'd break his new friend's digits. Yet the lithe stranger showed no sign of discomfort. In fact, he seemed even more wired with unseen energy and humor.

"What a lovely day to meet you, Sylar." His blue eyes danced impishly as he finally purred, "I'm Orson."

xxx

**To Be Continued…**


	2. Stranger Danger

Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

"**Stranger Danger"**

In all two-hundred and thirty-eight days that Gabriel Monroe had lived in San Francisco, he hadn't once met someone he'd soon call a 'friend.' But on that ordinary Wednesday afternoon, after two months of monotonous shrink visits, his encounter with the enigmatic Orson Huxley changed the name of the game.

Orson had a way about him that lured Sylar in, right from the first time they made contact. Whether it was his mischievously sharp eyes or boyish little smile, or perhaps the nice black and white suit he wore like sweats and a t-shirt, his appeal still remained a mystery. Nevertheless, Sylar found his shrink visits getting more and more enjoyable with this newcomer to talk to in the lobby every single week.

"Did you hear about the famine in Havana?" Orson's cerulean eyes practically shined with excitement. "It's not exactly front page news, I know, but I did a story on it last week for _The Bay_."

Sylar frowned, interested. "I'm afraid you'll have to humor me. Cuba is being bombarded by locusts. Is that somehow significant?"

Orson arched a thin eyebrow. "Indeed, friend. The impact on the economy and morale is very noticeable, even if it's subtle. I suspect a layer of fear among everyone. A 'could this happen to me?' question that throbs in their minds, all over the world."

"The minds that actually read your article, that is."

The gaunt journalist leaned back casually in his chair, black locks falling a bit into his face. "Of course," he replied smoothly, but his bright eyes narrowed a bit. Then, a couple seconds later, he was grinning madly like before and leaning closer to Sylar. Things were amicable as fast as they were sardonic. Sylar loved it, the spontaneity. It was new, it was fresh. It was like an IV had been shoved into his vein and pumped full of a prototype oxygen. Orson was smart and wild and witty and it was unlike anything the amnesiac had ever experienced.

Though Sylar couldn't help but that think, with a heavy heart, that what fascinated him so much about his new friend was that Orson resembled a mish-mash of Peter and himself into one person. Peter's good looks, sharp tongue, short temperament; Sylar's intelligence, inquisitiveness, and eccentricies.

"It really is awful though," Orson nodded seriously. "They expect the whole economy to slide. Every crop ruined."

"Terrible," Sylar muttered. "Reminds me of that drought a couple years ago in Kansas. Remember that?"

"How could I forget? My friend covered the whole story."

Orson the journalist and Sylar the history buff often had discussions comparing the past and current events. Oh, they'd already covered the war in Iraq and Vietnam…Napoleon and Caesar…the classics, naturally. But as Orson and Sylar's conversations grew more and more deep, their topics raised in obscurity and controversy.

"I've been meaning to ask you about your opinions on Sears Tower raid, but I keep forgetting," Orson abruptly blurted out, looking even more hyper and enthusiastic than usual.

Jesus Christ, this man could read Sylar like a book. _That _topic was one that Sylar had been just brimming to rant about. But before he could even utter a single word, Dr. Knox's secretary emerged from the office with her polished high heels and tiny little clipboard.

"Gabriel Monroe?"

Sylar sighed, disappointed. "That would be me," he grumbled. He turned to Orson with genuine sympathy. "Hold that thought, will you? We can talk about it next week, I guess."

"Nonsense," bristled Orson. "You, me, lunch. Today. After our appointments. I'll treat you to any place in town, and we can continue our little discussion before the appetizers even come."

Sylar grinned. "Have it your way, then. Robert's Deli at two o'clock. And don't make me wait."

xxx

Robert's Deli was Sylar's favorite joint, mostly because of their good corned beef and clusters of eclectic customers. And as Orson had already greatly expressed his love of a tasty Reuben to Sylar in an earlier conversation (which began with a debate about the Trojan war and somehow ended with hoagies), Gabriel found it as fit as any other place to take his new friend.

Indeed, Orson was not disappointed. Sylar could almost see stars in the journalist's striking eyes as he bit into a double-decker beef and cheese on rye. Orson wiped his mouth daintily and set the sandwich down, peering at Sylar admirably.

"You might be a lot of things, comrade, but _this _is proof that you're no liar. Delicious."

Sylar smiled. "My idiosyncrasies annoy Niki, but she_ does_ give me credit for two things- my tastes in literature and food."

"Your taste in history seems laudable of credit too."

Sylar shrugged. "It depends on what you like. I've seen some of the homework they give Micah and it's no surprise kids are bored with school these days. They leave all the good facts out."

Orson smiled. "Like how Alexander the Great was a cross-dressing bisexual?"

"Right. See, no teenager would _ever _forget something like that."

"And naturally, _no one _can deny how fascinating Nero was."

Sylar leaned forward in strong agreement. "Exactly! He was a complete nutcase, but that's what makes him interesting. Though I do believe Caligula was worse…"

"The _movie _Caligula or the _man_?" Orson chuckled.

Sylar snorted with a glaze of a sour grimace, remembering the 1980 Malcolm McDowell flick that he accidentally checked out from the library a few months ago. From the back cover, it sounded like a perfectly civilized and well-made historical movie, when, in actuality, it was two hours of fetish porn.

"Both," he weakly answered. Orson's eyes widened a bit and he looked Sylar up and down, clearly wondering how the library assistant could have gotten muddled in such murky waters.

"It's a…long story," Sylar coughed out, tugging at his collar to give his throat more breathing room. Orson said nothing, but the curve of his lips and dazzle in his eyes spoke more sarcasm than Sylar could even hope to muster in words.

"So while we're on the subject of crazy brunette men," Orson said with a languorous smoothness that no one else couldn't imitate_. _He left that last word hanging on the edge for a second before continuing with,_ "_What are_ you_ doing in Knox's lair?"

There was a blunt, uncomfortable shift in the mood of their conversation and a couple strangled noises from Sylar's throat before he gathered a reply in his head.

"Grief therapy," Sylar finally admitted. "My brother and his girlfriend were both very close to me, but I lost them last April when…"

Orson's eyes were even bigger and glassier than usual, as if opening them wide could allow him to see right into Sylar's soul. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," he said wistfully.

Sylar glanced up and met him directly in the eyes, Sylar's dry orbs gaining energy off Orson's sparkling pair. "It's fine. They, uh…they died in a fire."

"How terrible," Orson whispered. "That is one of the more painful ways to die."

Had Peter and Claire _actually _died in a fire, Sylar might have noticed Orson's lack of tact. But Sylar knew that the way his friends truly were lost was much more painful than any burning house and thus was oblivious to Orson's rather impolite observation.

"It's kind of odd though," Sylar continued, gaze locked once again on the table. He traced the tiles with one finger, trying to make sense of the endless pattern as his story rambled on. "When I first moved here, right after the funeral, I was well off and _happy_. I have a girlfriend, and she has a wonderful son, and I loved the city. I loved having a new life and it made me forget about _them_ for a while."

"You could get used to a new routine without them so it didn't feel like anything was missing. At first." Orson said it as a statement, not a question, and the preciseness of it made Sylar stare upon him with even more newfound respect.

"Yes." Sylar sniffed slightly and collected his thoughts, but decided against speaking any of them aloud. Orson understood. Orson _always _understood, even if Sylar didn't say exactly what he meant. Though sometimes, Orson pulsed with an almost creepy amount of intuition, so much that Sylar often wondered if his friend could read his mind.

But that was probably unlikely. Orson was not a man full of secrets, though he liked to pretend so. Sylar was sure that if Orson was a mutant, he would have been one of the first to be bar-coded. And seeing as the blue-eyed journalist's wrists remained pale and devoid of ink, Sylar felt secure.

So the deepest truth, one he wouldn't even tell Niki, was that yes, the routine had grown old. The new life wasn't new anymore, and that gave Sylar too much time to wallow in his leftover grief. Reading Peter's journals only made things worse in the end. The more Sylar reflected on his old life, the more he wanted to be out there again, saving the world with his brother and Claire.

He never really realized how much he loved Peter and the spy life until his twin died. Now it was too late.

"Alright," Orson abruptly said, shimmying his shoulders to shake off invisible dust. "You showed me yours, so I'll show you mine. Ask me anything."

"Anything?" Sylar laced his fingers absently. "I'll start with the obvious, then. Why are _you_ seeing Knox?"

Orson sighed like a beachgoer on an overcast day. "An everyday case of schizophrenia. Voices yelling at me and all. It's quite," he leered playfully, "maddening."

Unusually, Sylar didn't laugh at the pun, but Orson still looked unabashed. He continued, as if the awkward silence between them never existed.

"In all seriousness though, this illness has…robbed me of my innocence," Orson grimly said. "But I want to recover and recount for the sins of my past. I don't like having my head out of control."

For the first time, his normally electric eyes lost their sparkle and a few wrinkles creased his youthful face. Though Sylar had looked at his friend as though he walked on water, it was in that moment that he realized how alike he and Orson actually were. Even with all Orson's charm, he was just another person out there trying to survive.

Sylar smiled in spite of himself, letting his inhibitions go for a minute. "I know how that feels. My slate isn't exactly blank either."

Orson's left brow arched wildly, bent like a thin boomerang over a fiercely penetrating blue eye. "Oy? Scared away all your friends too?"

A darker side of Sylar, one that hardly ever showed, began to rear its head. "Much worse, Orson. So bad I don't even remember it. It's was years ago though. I was young and…I'm still not sure what happened, or why. I just know that I'm capable of something that's terrible and it scares me all the time."

"Having great power _is _terrifying," Orson nodded solemnly, and his words brought Sylar back down to cruel reality.

"Power?" he frowned. "No, I…I don't think I ever said anything about…powers."

Orson immediately backtracked, waving a slender hand in nonchalance. "Of course not, comrade, of course not. Entirely not what I meant. I simply implied that those with mental illness seem lack a cricket on their shoulder, eh? These types like us, who were at one point fearless and without conscience, are far more intimidating and capable of crime than those who couldn't bear to harm another person. Understandable?"

"Er…sure." Sylar's head hurt as he tried to process Orson's usual long-winded and upside-down explanation. It was like trying to learn how to change oil in a car from a manual written in Pig Latin. Though Sylar regularly was at the same plane as Orson, he was getting weary today and losing focus on his friend's garbled speak.

"You know," he began carefully, "I'm sorry, I've kind of got a headache. I think I'm gonna pick up my paycheck and head on home."

Orson reached across the table and patted Sylar on the wrist, allowing Sylar to feel the chill of his fingers.

"No problem, friend. I suppose I'll see you next week?"

Sylar dithered, nodding vaguely as he stood up. "I don't see why not. Have a good day, Orson."

He threw a couple bills on the table to tip the waiter with, and gave Orson's bony shoulder a small squeeze of goodbye on the way out.

"You never know, Sylar," Orson grinned toothily. "You might just see me again sooner than you think!"

xxx

The hall of genealogy at San Francisco's downtown library was more like a den of knick-knacks than a sanctuary of the ages. Sylar's tiny desk was shoved between a couple towering wooden shelves, constantly immersing the room in sepia shadows and dust. It wasn't much of a dream job, but it was a far cry better than shelving books in the main room, a task that always left Sylar's fingers raw.

Luckily, he wasn't in here for work today; just to pick up his paycheck, which rested rather unguardedly on his desk. Sylar frowned. The head librarian and his boss, Riley, was a slightly scatterbrained and eccentric man. Likeable, and full of genius quirks, but rather annoyingly idealistic and overly trustworthy when it came to things like money. God only knew the number of books the library had lost on Riley's "honor system."

Sylar deftly pocketed the white envelope which contained his salary, and then squeezed his way through to the other side of the desk, fighting not to knock over a particularly soaring stack of papers. Once he was through to the cramped backside, he pulled open the center drawer and withdrew a blank manila folder, which was slightly thick but not _stuffed_.

Though this little operation was kept slightly secret from his co-workers, Sylar was proud to admit that the contents of the beige folder was no mystery from Niki. One less secret kept from her, the better. In fact, everything contained inside was actually her (and Peter's) idea in the first place.

He pinched open the clasp and undid the top of his large envelope, taking a peek into the folder's dark abyss. Everything was in there, as expected. So with a feeling of security, Sylar closed the manila folder back up and slid it silently into his messenger bag.

The truth was, while Sylar helped other people hunt down their ancestors, he was also trying to find his own. What better setting to look for Emily Freis-Monroe's records than his own workplace? After weeks of digging, when he wasn't labeling or helping a lost customer, he had found a wealth of information. Not just on Emily herself, but on several others that Sylar's path had been led to. It was like doing research on a field of dominos: knock one over and a whole set reacts, practically shoving information towards him.

In the manila folder was all of the research he had collected thus far. And, not having the proper time to pour over it at the library, he was finally deciding to take it home and look for answers in a more domestic setting. Though Sylar's job, and his boss, were both the opposite of stressful, he couldn't help but feel slightly trapped and claustrophobic in this dusty, lonely hall of lost and unkept records.

Just as Sylar closed the drawer, wiggled his way to the other side of the desk, and was heading towards the door, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. And to be blunt, it scared the hell out of him.

Sylar jumped, nearly hitting one of the swaying, fragile shelves in the A-I section. He gritted his teeth and dug a hand into his pocket, slowly removing the trembling phone and thumbing a finger over the green "Talk" button.

"Hello?" he mumbled, uncomfortable with the loudness of his own voice. Only then did he realize that he hadn't even bothered to look at the caller ID, and he crossed his fingers that this wasn't _another _telemarketer.

"Hey sweetie," cooed a calm female voice from the other line. Sylar relaxed, abandoning his worry. It was merely Niki.

"Ah, hi. What's going on?"

"Nothing much. Are you okay?" There was a small beat of concern in her tone. "You sound really out of breath."

Sylar blushed, and was glad that his girlfriend couldn't see him. "My phone just, um…surprised me."

"It scared you again?"

"_Surprised _me."

Niki giggled but didn't push it, making way for the real reason she called. "Fine, I'll take your word for it. But really, where are you right now?"

"At the library. Just picking up my pay."

He could sense her nodding. "Cool. That little Chinese place is near there, right? By Howard and 5th?"

Sylar rubbed his temples, tiredly recalling his mental map of San Francisco. "I think. You want me to pick something up?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. It's not too much trouble, is it?"

"No, it's on the way," Sylar responded. Though the words came out wearily, they _were _true. "Sesame chicken, right?" he confirmed.

"Mmm-hmm." There was a moment of hesitation between them, neither one sure of what to say. Niki ended up breaking the awkwardness.

"So I'll see you in about a half hour?"

Sylar nodded for the benefit of nothing except for the motion itself. "Yes, if the traffic is good."

"Okay…see you then…"

"Right. Bye?" Sylar chewed his lip to fight away the nervous twitching in his gut. This was perfect timing, and it wouldn't take much to just let out those three little words…

"…bye"

He waited too long. Just for a split second, but that was still enough to separate the "I love you" on his lips from the dial tone in his ear. Sylar sighed dejectedly and tossed the phone into his messenger bag, along with all the other files and junk that he kept in there.

As he strolled out of the library looking like a droopy-eyed lost dog, he could almost imagine Peter up in heaven, watching over him. Because somewhere, Gabriel was sure, Peter was groaning and smacking his forehead with his own palm, wondering if Sylar would _ever _inherit his moxy.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	3. Witholding The Truth

Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

"**Withholding the Truth"**

Sylar's office was unusually cold on the Friday before his birthday. Yet, as he poured over his genealogy research from the following week, he pretty much failed to notice the extreme lack of heat around him.

_Emily Freis-Monroe, age 31, was laid to rest on this day, December 24, 1979. in her hometown of Long Island. She leaves behind a widowed mother and two newborn twin sons- Michael Peter and Gabriel Ezekiel, whom she safely delivered before passing in childbirth. She was recently married to an unidentified man, whose name remains vaguely anonymous as "Mr. Monroe." Her funeral service will be held at Grace Memorial Park at 9 AM on Wednesday, as an open invitation. _

Next to the obituary's faded blurb was a picture of a smiling, dark-haired young woman who looked kind of like a beautiful, feminine cross between Sylar and Peter. Yet her face was a bit rounder than her two sons, and her eyes more wide, so Sylar figured that he and his brother got their strong cheekbones and height from their father.

His fingers brushed over her black and white face, scratched and dusted with the breath of age. For the very first time, Sylar was looking upon his mother- his poor, deceased young mother. It made his heart sink even more. He was _born _a damn killer.

Sylar sighed and slipped Emily's obituary back into his manila folder, sniffing and wiping his face on his sleeve. Even with Emily gone, there was still his father out there somewhere, hopefully. Though honestly, the amnesiac wasn't sure he wanted to meet up with dear old Dad. The guy seemed like a good-for-nothing fool from Sylar's inferences, abandoning his poor wife and letting his children be cast off into adoption, separated from one another. Or did Mr. Monroe even know he _had _sons? Would he even _care_?

Before Sylar could contemplate it more, a small creak sounded from the doorway. He looked up with a jolt of surprise running from his head down to his feet, and he hastily swept all off his research into his bag. The chances that he'd get in 'trouble' from taking a walk through the past were slim, but it still was considered goofing around on the job. Better safe than sorry.

Yet the person- actually, _people- _who walked through the door were not bosses or administrators or even librarians with wild hair and tight blazers. One of them was very familiar to Sylar, and the other one he had never seen before in his life.

"I told you it might be sooner rather than later," hummed Orson, arms wide and inviting as he approached Sylar's desk. Sylar, with a bit of hesitation, accepted his friend's warm greeting embrace.

"How did you get back here?" he asked, pulling away with an arched eyebrow. The words were out as a natural reaction of curiosity rather than a sign of alarm. It wasn't _that _hard to reach Sylar at work- you simply had to make an appointment first and have a laudable reason for going into the genealogy hall. Which, he never knew- maybe Orson wasn't kidding when they met, about checking out his grandmother's death certificate.

Orson shrugged. "Piece of cake, comrade." He glanced to his left, to the slender Asian girl who had accompanied him into the hall. With a graceful movement, he set his hand on the woman's back and guided her forward, showcasing her to Sylar.

"Where are my manners?" he drawled dramatically. "Sylar, I'd like to introduce you to Leelee Lang."

"Hello," Sylar smiled invitingly, though he couldn't disguise how his eyes roamed over her in awe, taking in her carefully pieced together outfit that absolutely dripped with charms and accessories. Leelee's eyes were heavily painted with black and gold, highlighting the bright specks of light that reflected in her dark eyes. Dark lipstick coated her lips and her silky hair was piled on her head, revealing a bow and arrow tattoo on the side of her neck. All in all, on an ordinary weekday morning, Leelee Ling looked like she had just gotten misguided from the nearest anime convention.

But strangely, the Look fit her; she could pull it all off without a single giggle or knowing glance in her direction from random passersby.

"Lovely to meet you," she said, sliding her dainty hand into Sylar's fingers as a gesture of welcoming. Her voice was deeper than Sylar would have suspected. It was low and sexy, sending a creeping chill down his spine.

Orson took in Sylar's wide eyes, and he possessively wrapped an arm around Leelee's waist, marking her as his and his only. Sylar's face straightened out a bit more as he took a deep breath, musing on how misdirected Orson was.Yes, Gabriel found her mildly attractive in a dirty, twisted way…but that still didn't mean he wanted to touch her with a thirty foot pole.

"Doing anything important?" Orson inquired innocently. Sylar bit his lip and sat down, ruffling the papers on his desk distractedly.

"Not really. I was working on some independent research when you came in, but it's been a slow day for real work."

"Awesome," Leelee piped, leaning forward and pressing both her palms on his desk. Sylar could feel her heat radiating and hitting him in the face and he immediately backed up, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

Orson quickly stepped in to elucidate. "We've already got you off the hook for the day, Sylar."

The amnesiac stayed so far back in his chair that he nearly melded into the cushion. "_What _did you do?"

Orson maneuvered his way around Leelee, sitting effortlessly on the desk. "According to us, all your little librarian friends think we're your cousins and that your Uncle Harold just died in a tragic fishing accident. And out of the goodness of their hearts, they've decided to give you the next two days off on paid leave to recover from your grievances."

Sylar stood abruptly, fighting not to raise his voice and attract attention from the main lobby. "You told them…? But that's a complete and utter _lie_! Do you want me fired?!"

Orson grasped Sylar's shoulders gently, piercing his friend with a pair of sharp blue eyes. "Shhh, comrade. It's nothing! Just look a bit more forlorn than usual, walk a little slower…" He patted Sylar on the cheek in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. "They'll buy it, I swear."

"And what do you expect me to do with two days off?" Sylar seethed, though his voice was much quieter. "It's not like I have anything better to do than to come into work."

Orson's eyebrows knitted and he grabbed Sylar by the arm, swiftly dragging his reluctant friend around the table and towards the door, not harshly but with the air of a determined friend. "Of course you do. Look at your skin- it's white, you vampire. Let's go out and get some sun, shall we?"

Leelee pranced in front of them and held open the door, kissing Orson briskly on the cheek as he and Sylar trudged through the wooden frame. The bright sun from the library's skylights singed Sylar's eyes He started to understand what Orson was talking about when it came to his lack of melanin activity.

Sylar's boss Riley approached them and Orson's tight grasp was instantly gone from Sylar's body, putting them in a much more normal and convincing position. Sylar sensed Leelee joining them and saw her link arms with Orson in his peripheral vision.

Sylar's boss clapped him on the shoulder, peering up at him through black-rimmed Coke bottle glasses.

"So sorry about you uncle, Gabriel," Riley said genuinely. "Take as much time as you need, son."

"Sure…" Sylar nodded, looking down and feeling a sharp pang of guilt in his chest. He shot Orson a glare out of the corner of his eye once Riley was gone, but the journalist merely shrugged with his usual nonchalance.

xxx

The cold front that Sylar had sensed a couple weeks ago still lingered in the California air, a constant reminder that Christmas was less than a week away. And of course, as Leelee, Orson, and Sylar made their way down the Boardwalk, _Little St. Nick _was blasting out of every knick-knack shop they walked by. Sylar cringed and popped the collar on his wool-lined coat, drawing it up to his ears to stop the dreaded sound of jingle bells.

"Not feeling festive, eh?" Orson winked knowingly. Of course. Orson was always within the wrinkles of Sylar's mind, knowing what he thought _before _he thought it. And while this had been fascinating at first, Sylar was beginning to get a bit bothered by it. He was an independent man, especially when it came to his thoughts. To have someone else up there playing in his mental sandbox was daunting and sometimes even scary.

Though Orson seemed unaffected by the constant cheer, Sylar was glad to see Leelee seemed to share his soul of Scrooge.

"Hate Christmas," she muttered, digging the toe of her huge leather boot into the boardwalk. "All these stupid people running around pretending like they give a damn about each other." She rolled her eyes, but being the ever-perky Leelee, still managed to have a kittenlike quality of playfulness through her retort.

She tore off a piece of cotton candy she'd bought not five minutes before, daintily placing it on her tongue. The edible fiber hadn't even dissolved yet and she was already boredly tossing the whole thing away, five dollars worth of half-eaten spun sugar to litter the beach. Sylar's brow creased and a frown deepened on his face. Orson was good for conversation, but he was really couldn't stand Leelee (nor could he comprehend what Orson saw in her). Not only was the little diamond tiara clip perched on her head rather self-indulgent, but the way she shamelessly littered _his _beautiful city irritated him more than anything.

Even more, Orson had revealed to him on the way to the Boardwalk that Leelee was an underground artist. A woman who made a living off of beautifying the city was now throwing her trash all over it. The irony never ceased.

"So tell me more about this Niki you're hiding away," Orson casually brought up, and Sylar glanced at Leelee. This was small talk, something that he and Orson never had. "All you've told me thus far is her name."

He nevertheless considered the question. "What's there to tell?" Sylar shrugged. "She's beautiful, hard-working…strong…" He smirked slightly to himself on that last description. If only they really knew.

"Got a son, right?"

"Yeah. Micah." An unamused frown deepened into Sylar's face. "Why so interested?"

Orson waved a hand carefreely, eventually laying it to rest on Leelee's waist. "Nothing important. You've just met my lady and I'd like to meet yours." He gave Sylar a light punch in the arm. "See what she sees in _you, _chum."

They stopped near the end of the boardwalk and turned to face the bay, which tore Sylar's mind from his ill musings. The shining water stirred something inside his chest and he sniffed loudly to clear the severely untimely sobs from escaping him.

While Leelee checked something on her cell, Orson was turned towards Sylar, his eyes bursting with an extraordinary amount of inquisitiveness. But when he touched his comrade lightly on the shoulder, a comforting caress really, his tone wasn't dreamy. In fact, it seemed that Orson's voice had gone down half an octave, laced with apathy, and straight, hard American rather than his usual faux-European.

"I know death is a hard thing to recover from," Orson said resolutely. "But your friends are better off, believe me. Death gives them a sense of…peace. When you're dead there's no worries anymore. You don't have to pay your taxes, or take care of anyone. You don't have to feel anymore pain. You can just…lay down and forget it all. Just let yourself slip away into the dark, or the light, or whatever you believe. I believe a little drop of death in everyone's life keeps them healthy, down to Earth. Reminds them of what's important."

"How would you know?" Sylar muttered back, more harshly than he intended. "What do _you_ _know_ of death?"

Orson blinked slowly in thought before replying, almost weakly, "More than you."

Leelee interrupted them with a glance at her watch, pencil-thin eyebrows rising on her forehead. "Mmm…look. It's almost five." The December sun was already lowering on the horizon as proof, illuminating the San Francisco bay in neon pastels.

Sylar pulled his stare away from the water and looked back at Leelee, who in the space of a few seconds had gone from checking out her timepiece to being entwined with Orson on the street, her lips hungrily pressed against his. Sylar wore a frown of confusion as he watched their mouths dance and Leelee's hands slip downward. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that there was zero love between Orson and his exotic artist- merely lust. Which, yes, Sylar had witnessed more than enough one-night stands, but he'd never in his life seen an actual _relationship _without love. It surely boggled the mind.

Leelee finally pulled away from her wiry lover and shot a wink to Sylar before heading off towards the city. Orson's eyes stayed locked on the straps criss-crossing her back until she was out of sight, leaving Sylar to stand uncomfortably silent beside him.

Once Leelee was completely gone, Orson rubbed his neck awkwardly. "Sorry about her. She kind of tagged along with me."

"It's…okay," Sylar muttered unconvincingly.

"I'll make it up to you, though" continued Orson with a lifted chin. "Ever seen hockey in real life? There's a game on Monday night, and it'd be my treat."

"Monday?" Sylar checked the small date on his watch. "Wait…is that the twenty-third?"

Orson quickly did the math in his head and questioningly replied, "Yes, and?"

Sylar's face fell and he lowered his wrist. "Oh, I'm sorry. That's Peter and I's…_my_ birthday. Niki has this big dinner planned."

The blue-eyed man nodded understandingly, his face melting into remorse like a sad puppy's. "Shame, then. I'm sure I could have gotten good seats. But I perfectly understand- your family comes before anything else."

Sylar's chest let out a breath of relief, and for a split second, he was light, cheerful, obviously not thinking properly because-

"You know what? Why don't you come over to _my _place that night? Niki always makes too much, so there'll be enough food for you. And you'd get to meet everyone like you wanted."

He couldn't help but feel a premature inkling of regret as the words tumbled from his lips. It wasn't Orson he feared, but rather, Niki's reaction. She was the suspicious type after some long years of being stabbed in the back by strangers, and Sylar wasn't so sure she'd take kindly to Orson right away. After all, Orson was a tad…strange.

Yet the schizophrenic's face suddenly titled up, eyes brimming with eagerness. "That would be wonderful! Are you sure it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"No, of course not," Sylar beamed. "I'd love to have you at my birthday, Orson." He hesitated a bit before admitting, "You're my first real friend here. You deserve it more than anyone."

Orson's expression shined with radiance, illuminating his pale skin. "Then how kind of you, dear sir. Monday night it is."

xxx

Sylar tried to sneak into his apartment without a sound, but when you're six feet tall and have arms and legs to match, stealth doesn't exactly come easily. He hit a table on the way in, drawing a high-pitched "Sylar? Is that you?" from the den.

A glance at the clock over the mantelpiece made him cringe. It was past six o'clock and he'd forgotten to call Niki, to tell her that he'd be late. Though maybe she wouldn't be angry…

Yes, luckily, the woman who trusted him with her life and her sons, was unperturbed. "Where've you been?" she asked. There was no accusatory note in her voice; just interest.

"Out with some friends," Sylar absently replied.

Niki's jaw dropped. "Wait…you just spent time with people? _Outside?_"

Sylar snorted gently. "Surprised?"

Niki smiled and leaned back on the kitchen bar, casually delighted. "Pleasantly so. It's a good thing you're getting out of the house. Were they co-workers?"

"Uh…no, actually." Sylar hesitated a moment, just then realizing that he had neglected mentioning Orson to Niki all this time. Mostly, the whole "I have this new friend who was a schizo, but he's okay now" conversation wasn't one he was particularly excited to have with her, even though her former MPD would probably make her sympathetic.

"It was just this man I met at Knox's office," Sylar carefully explained. "His name's Orson. He and his girlfriend were with me this afternoon."

Niki nodded and only then did Sylar see how naïve her gaze was. "Well, if you already had dinner with them after work, I guess I'll just go pick up something for myself down the street."

"Actually, I'm pretty hungry too," Sylar admitted. She gave him a funny look and he blanched, turning sheepish. "Um…they sort of wiggled me out of work early and we had breakfast."

"He broke you out of work?" Niki exploded with shocked outrage. "Sylar!"

Sylar, using his traditional passive techniques, held up his hands in truce. "I know, it was rash, but he understands that he can't do that anymore. And maybe he was right! I think I need a little break from the library. The monotony is starting to get to me, Niki."

Niki buried her face in her hands for a few seconds before dropping them in defeat. "I know you're not really used to living a 'normal' life, okay? But you've got to accept it, hon. This is _reality. _People work for a living. They do things they hate the first half of the day so they can afford the things they love later on."

His face was curved towards the ground, and he sensed Niki stepping over to him. She lifted his chin with one of her slender hands, encouraging him to look at her.

"Listen," she sighed. "Just promise me you can survive December without getting into any more trouble? I know things are hard and I understand, but we have to be realistic. I'm making minimum wage and tips, sweetie. I can't hold up this apartment on my own."

Now a sticky guilt like molasses was beginning to seep into Sylar's chest. He rested his hands on Niki's shoulders and nodded in chagrin. "I know, and I swear I won't make you do this alone. Just no more lectures_, please_."

Niki's thin lips tilted into a small smile. "Okay. No more lectures." She kissed him on the cheek and slipped away, back to clean the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen.

"So how exactly do you know Orson from your sessions?" she asked a few moments later, much more cheerful. However, Sylar could sense an undercurrent of caution.

"I met him in the waiting room," shrugged Sylar. "He's a journalist for the _Bay _and a nice man, trust me. He's just kind of eccentric and spontaneous. That's the only reason he got me to play hooky today. I get the feeling that Orson's a man who likes pushing boundaries and I think I set him straight today. He knows what lines he can't cross now."

Niki indulged him with a smile, but it morphed into a suspicious frown as soon as she turned away.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	4. Sleepwalking

Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

"**Sleepwalking"**

Sylar awoke on his birthday with Niki in his arms, her arms bare in a small pink night blouse. His fingers grazed her skin, too lightly to wake her but enough to convince Sylar that she was real.

Every morning he had to do a double check and make sure this wasn't the middle of some dreamlike hamster wheel. Up till recently, Micah and Niki were the only ones who gave Sylar the urge to get out of bed in the mornings. Now that he had Orson though, things were looking up even higher. Orson was a beacon of eccentric spontaneity in Sylar's normally monotonous life.

Niki let out a small mew of sleep and she squirmed, one leg instinctively hooking over Sylar's knee. The man glanced down and shifted his waist so they were a bit further apart. Though in sleep they laid entwined, it was always with two layers of clothing between them. They'd yet to make love, something that Sylar was pretty chill about at first. Nowadays though, he was getting sort of…antsy.

But why was _she _to blame for that? He was the dumb prat who couldn't muster up the moxy to tell her he loved her. And in a relationship like theirs, such a sentiment _had _to come before anything particularly intimate.

Sylar planted a soft kiss to her forehead and shimmied his way out of their embrace, making sure not to wake her. Once he successfully crawled out of bed, he headed towards the bathroom, telekinetically flipping the light as he entered.

Sylar caught sight of himself in the mirror and groaned. His stubble was a more than a few days old, his hair stuck up in all directions, demanding to be cut, and on top of that he'd accidentally slept with his contacts in, puffing up his bloodshot eyes.

Once he'd managed to run a brush through his unruly hair, shaved, and put liquid tears in his eyes, Sylar could look at his reflection with a bit more seriousness. He glared into his own eyes, into two shallow brown pools of dullness, his pupils hiding in a sea of chocolate from the bathroom's bright lights.

Never much one for pep talks or motivational speaking, he felt a little awkward doing this- psyching himself out into making a pact, speaking in second person. _You will do it today. You will look Niki in the eye and tell her __**today **__that you are in love with her__**.**_

But hey, whatever worked. Sylar'd eat a live cockroach if it guaranteed that the words _I love you _would come out of his mouth before the toll of midnight chimed.

And this whole 'staring at yourself a la Rocky' thing was a lot less disgusting than Fear-Factoring his way through it. So he really had no right to complain.

xxx

An hour later, Sylar slipped into Micah's apartment, placing his key back into his pocket. The boy was at his computer desk (as usual), typing away. Sylar could tell, by the way the keys were being tapped, that Micah was on instant messenger.

"G'mornin Micah. Who are you talking to?"

Micah looked up brightly, happy for both Sylar's genuine interest and the conversation on his screen. "Molly. Mohinder's thinking about letting her move in with me when she turns eighteen!"

Sylar arched an eyebrow and with a small scoff he replied, "Alone with you? I'll believe _that _when I see it. Mohinder's either humoring you or he had a lobotomy."

Micah shrugged. "Nah. Molly says that it's his new lab assistant, Evie. He _loooooves _her, and secretly wants to get Molly out of the house."

Sylar let out a chuckle. "Mohinder should know better than to tango with his assistants. They sort of have a high mortality rate."

His smile then dropped when he recalled that _he himself_ killed Mohinder's first helper-turned-lover, Eden McCain (or at least that's what he was told secondhand). Sylar's cheerful mood dissolved away and soon, he was staring at his large feet with a deep frown.

"Maybe he just had a bad run-in with the Miracle Doctor," Micah suggested, and Sylar perked back up.

"Now that I'd believe," he answered enthusiastically. "Just don't say that in front of your mother."

Micah smirked in agreement, also knowing how much Niki Sanders hero-worshiped the local legend, though she had never met him or had she been treated by him. "Maybe she just has a thing for dudes named Monroe."

The miracle worker in question was actually a young British chap named _Doctor _Monroe, who declared on every billboard and cable car in Frisco that he could heal all injuries, and even bring people back from the dead. And of course, because Gabriel and the good doctor shared the same last name, Niki was constantly suggesting that they were long-lost cousins.

To which Sylar would snort, "He's _blonde. _And British_. _How could there even be a drop of related blood between us?"

And Niki always just blinked sedately and twiddled her thumbs, saying, "You never know."

Back in the present, Micah rolled his eyes. "Mom says he's like the Wizard of Oz."

"Yes, but remember Micah- the Wizard was not a wizard at all. Merely an ordinary man behind a curtain."

The Miracle Doctor was a household name in San Francisco naturally, but his image didn't come about until after the mutant laws were abolished. Which, though Sylar wanted to believe that the guy was a complete quack, the fact that there might be a barcode on Dr. Monroe's wrist meant that his claims were probably true. Plus, Sylar himself had the ability to necromance people, so he more than anyone else should have believed.

However, these "miracles" were not for the empty-pocketed. To have Dr. Monroe perform a healing was only for those with incredible disposable income or someone with a lot of rich friends. After all, what price was too high to bring back a loved one?

Of course, Sylar had considered it several times- taking Peter and Claire to Monroe to see what the British doc could muster up. In fact, Sylar himself had considered trying out his bringing-people-back-to-life ability, when times got tough and he missed his friends, but he'd always get scared right beforehand and shy away.

One factor was that they were cremated- probably not the best medium to be reincarnated in. And the second, much more important thing, was that Sylar had no clue what he was doing. Every time he even thought of bringing them back, his mind was filled with rotten images of their bodies working but their minds lost…or Peter and Claire trapped in each other's bodies…or even both of his friends caught in paralyzed states, screaming inside their heads as they couldn't move their limbs. There were _so many _ways that Sylar would screw it up and at the end of the day, it wasn't worth the risk.

"Speaking of your mother though," Sylar began, shifting the subject to something more real, "I thought I should inform you that…today I…I'm going to tell her how I feel."

He could sense that the boy didn't get the gravity of such a statement. Micah only shrugged and turned back to his computer. "She knows."

Sylar stepped closer to Micah. "No. I mean…how I'm _in love _with her."

Finally, Micah stared. "No way."

Sylar smiled a little, shyly so. "Yes. Way."

Micah covered his ears, groaning. "Aw, man. You know how 'Stacey's Mom' this whole thing is? _God._"

Sylar had no clue who Stacey's mom was, or what she did to earn a place in Micah's memory, but his chipper was not tarnished.

"I'm sorry it's so odd for you," he apologized genuinely. "You've pretty much been my best friend since we've been here, and I'm dating…your mother. Even_ I_ know that's pretty unorthodox."

"Yeah, just a little," Micah grumbled. "Sylar, you're cool and I love my mom, but you two together…it's _weird._"

Sylar knelt down to his little friend's level, putting a calming hand on Micah's shoulder.

"Micah. Niki and I are very happy together. But you're her son and if you don't want me around her, I won't be. There was nothing wrong with being just friends with her, if that would make you more comfortable."

The teenager shifted in his rolling chair, running a hand over his black curls. For a second, Sylar's heart sank, fearing that his offer would be taken up on. Of course, he'd do anything that Micah wished, but he wouldn't do it with a smile and a skip.

"It's fine," Micah finally announced. "See, you care about her. You_ take_ care of her. She doesn't get that from guys a lot. You're pretty much the best thing since Dad, and Mom's been really happy having you around."

"You really mean that?"

Micah gave him a pained 'don't-make-me-say-it-again' look. Sylar grinned and stood up, not sure of what to say to such a blessing.

"Thank you, Micah," he eventually murmured. "This means-,"

"I know, I know." Micah looked up at him with a small, boyish smile. "Go get her, chief. Before I change my mind."

His euphoria was infectious and Sylar already felt his chest begin to warm with confidence. Yeah, this was really gonna happen. He was _actually _going to tell Niki…

Then again, was it really a big deal in the first place? Was he making a mountain out of a molehill? Really. They were three words. Three _big _words, but just words nonetheless. Words that people told each other all the time.

Before he could debate it more, Sylar shook the thoughts from his head and walked towards Micah's entrance.

"The party's at seven tonight, okay? And I know you live really far away and all, but try not to be late."

As he opened the door and started heading out, Micah looked up from his laptop with a gentle roll of his eyes. "Ha-ha. You bet I'll be there. I'll even be early just to show you!"

Sylar snorted and closed the door behind him, already muttering to himself with a grin, "He'll be late."

xxx

At 6:55, when the sky was already a blooming navy blue and Sylar's apartment smelled wonderfully of Niki's cooking, Micah shocked all of them by keep his promise- walking through the door prematurely.

He handed Sylar a small wrapped square and gave his friend a quick hug. "Happy Birthday, man," he beamed, then saluted over to the mantelpiece. "You too, Peter."

Sylar patted him warmly on the shoulder, still staring at the urns above the fireplace as Micah joined his mother in the kitchen. Micah's last comment stirred something in his gut. Not unpleasant, but not pleasurable either. Just…nostalgic and a little bittersweet.

He looked down at the present in his hand and headed over to the Sanders duo, methodically tearing away the paper. Underneath the wrapping was a homemade CD, mysteriously with the word "HELPERS" written in all caps. Sylar glanced up at Micah, confused.

"What is this exactly?" he asked hesitantly, his expression hoping not to offend. Micah seemed to expect such a reaction though, for he winked as he offered an explanation.

"It's for your computer. It's full of all the best hacks and stuff I could find, plus the PC version of Portal for kicks and giggles."

"Wow," Sylar replied, more excited now. "This is really cool. Thanks."

"No problem."

"I've got something for you too," Niki announced bashfully, letting Micah take over the stove for a second. She opened one of the kitchen drawers and withdrew a long rectangular box, not wrapped up with paper but in obscurity. Sylar tilted his head in interest as she stepped over to him, delicately sliding the box into his hand.

It was only then did Sylar realize that this was the first present Niki had ever bestowed upon him. He had no clue what she could have gotten, or what kind of gift-giver she was. Was she a homemade-knickknacks sort of person? Oh, he'd love something sewn by her, maybe a sweater. Or a gift-card to their favorite deli- that would be delicious, no pun intended.

However, her actual bestowment was far greater than Sylar could have dreamed up in his ironically clock-like mind.

"I know what this is…" he murmured after removing the lid. His eyes scanned over all of the pieces, fascinated. "This is a watch repair kit. A _nice _one, too. They've even put in extra springs and plates!"

She smiled. "I know you like working on timepieces, and your old kit was lost when you moved, so…I thought it might interest you." Niki leaned up to kiss him on the cheek but Sylar, overwhelmed with gratefulness and his pact at the beginning of the day, turned his head at the last moment and captured her lips.

After shifting her position slightly, the blonde eagerly kissed him back, bringing both slender hands up to rest on his clean-shaven jaw. Sylar set the repair kit on the table next to them before letting his hands fall naturally to her waist. He pulled her nearer, so close that there wasn't even room for a sheet of paper between them.

Micah caught sight of his mother making out with his best friend and rolled his eyes good-naturedly, content to turn the other cheek and focus on the stir-fry.

"Sylar…" she whispered lazily as her mouth slipped away from his. Sylar brought up a hand, resting it gently on the back of her head as she settled her face in the crook of his neck. The sound of his name coming from her lips sent a pleasurable squirm deep inside him. He opened one eye and glanced down at her, all the golden hair running through his fingertips. She breathed against his skin and he swallowed, every sense exploding with desire-

"Niki, there's something I have to tell you."

She fell back, just enough to look at him while still resting in his arms. And right as the confession was about to come out of Sylar's mouth, for honest to God _real _this time, the doorbell startled them with a harsh buzz.

Niki's brow creased as she frowned. "Who could that be? It's just us, isn't it?"

"Well, actually…" Sylar admitted, cringing. "I invited Orson too."

His girlfriend slipped out of his embrace and followed him as he went to answer the door. "You did _what?_ I thought you said he was a lunatic!"

"He's not a lunatic," Sylar grumbled back, keeping his voice down so Orson couldn't hear them on the other side of the door. "He's just wild. I promise that if you give him a chance and you still can't stand him, you'll never have to see him again."

"Sylar," groaned Niki, but another harsh ringing of the doorbell cut her off, prompting Sylar to turn the doorknob and welcome their guest inside.

"Hey Orson," Sylar said, uncomfortably shifting moods. "Come on in."

He held open the door and the brunette man stepped into better light. Orson was over-dressed as usual, blacker-than-black suit ironed to the tee. The color matched his matte hair, drawing even more attention to those baby blues under his wire-rimmed spectacles. Sylar had never seen his friend with glasses before, but thought they fit him quite well. Orson looked a bit more normal with them, which was thankful.

That is, until he abruptly took them off, sliding them into his chest pocket and peering at Niki with an interested stare.

"Is this the lady I've heard so much about?" Orson asked, charmed.

Niki uneasily held out her hand to shake. "I don't know if I'm _that _girl, but I _am_ Niki Sanders."

Orson chortled and took her fingers into his gentle grasp. But instead of giving her a handshake, he bent down and brushed his lips across her knuckles, making the woman pinken in the cheeks.

"Delighted," Orson murmured, rolling his consonants. Niki couldn't decide whether to be flattered or creeped out, by both the man's appearance _and _his actions. He was admittedly handsome in a gaunt, wicked sort of way. Gorgeous eyes and sleek hair, but his strong cheekbones and full lips made him look rather feminine.

Orson then turned to the host and handed him a bottle of fine chardonnay. "I wasn't sure what to bring, so I figured booze is always a safe bet, right?" He flashed his pearly whites and headed into the dining room, leaving Sylar to catch Niki's sudden uncomfortable glance.

He set the bottle on their foyer table awkwardly. "Don't worry," he assured his girlfriend, the former alcoholic. "I'll get rid of it when he leaves."

"I wish that would be _now,_" she said out of the corner of her mouth as they followed Orson to the dinner table. "Showy isn't he?"

Sylar snorted a little. "Welcome to Orson Huxley."

**xxx**

The mood between the four was stilted at dinner, solely "how's the weather?" and "pass the mashed potatoes." Micah sat across from his mother, filling the fourth chair around the rectangular table, allowing him to send knowing looks her way throughout the night.

And, of course, sticking his tongue out at Orson when the creep in question was turned towards Niki in conversation. For instance:

"This is a gorgeous apartment you have," Orson complimented politely. "I see lots of pictures around. Are either of you into photography?"

"They're mostly Peter's…" Niki said slowly, glancing sideways at Sylar as if asking permission to continue. "We found a lot of his stuff after we moved."

"He used to be into it, before he met me," Sylar elaborated. "There's a lot of shots of New York, and random people in Central Park. He took a lot of pictures of Claire too."

Orson peered at one frame, which sat on the wall near the kitchen. It showcased a handsome young man with his arm playfully around a blonde girl. Both were dressed for the beach. "Is that him, there?"

Sylar followed his sight and quietly replied, "Yes. Him and Claire in Atlantic City, I think, when she was just a teenager. I don't know who took the picture though."

"A shame that such beauty had to perish," Orson tutted, shaking his head. "But I see you've still got nice scenery around here, at any rate."

He winked at Niki and she looked towards her plate in embarrassment. When Orson went back to his food, Sylar caught the furtive, upset gaze that she shared with her son. Micah then looked to Sylar and he winced, silently mouthing an apology. Micah merely narrowed his eyes.

"How'd you meet Sylar?" the teenager abruptly asked. Orson paused and the table went silent, save for the beat of Sylar's heart hammering in his chest. Sylar and Niki exchanged looks of worry. Yet, Orson _did _come up with something to say, as he always did.

"I met him near the bay," Orson replied simply. "On a Wednesday morning at ten fifteen in the kingdom of Doctor Knox."

"That's the therapist right?" Micah prodded once he unscrambled Orson's bizarre wording. "So why do _you _go there?"

"Micah!" Niki scolded him, though Sylar could tell from her eyes that she wasn't upset with her son, not really. Orson was caught off guard but he managed to recover quickly once again.

"No, it's fine." Orson waved a hand and shrugged. "I uh…used to suffer from schizophrenia. We're getting it fixed though. Knox gives me prescriptions."

"Schizophrenia?" Micah inquired, doing a relatively lame job at feigning naivety. "Which one is that again?"

Niki shot her son another disdainful look, and this one actually _was _full of daggers. _Don't push it, kiddo. _

"Voices, son," Orson quipped back. "They tell me to kill the president, burn down Yellowstone forest, etcetera. So annoying. There's no volume switch on the demons in your head, you know. Lithium's the only thing that shuts 'em up, at least for the day. The meds keep me up though, so I've still got to listen to the racket at night. And you think your _neighbors _are bad."

His explanation was overly frank and almost comical, but Niki failed to see any humor. She got up abruptly, half of her food still on her plate.

"I'm full. I'm just gonna go put this up, excuse me."

"Me too," Sylar added hastily, grabbing his own half-eaten dinner and following her into the kitchen. Once they got inside, Sylar shut the screened privacy door behind him, leaving Niki to shoot him one of her deadliest glares.

"I still cannot _believe _you've brought that man into our house," Niki seethed, eyes closed and fingers dangerously buried into her scalp. "Around my _son._"

"I know he's odd, and he's not someone you can used to right away," Sylar said, agreeing with her entirely. "And you don't want me to bring him around anymore, then I won't. Just like I said: you never have to see him again."

"I don't want you hanging around him at _all_!" Niki hissed. "And I'll know if you are. My son just happens to be dating a human GPS system."

"You would spy on me?" Sylar gaped. "Over something this _stupid? _Niki, he's just strange. He's not dangerous."

"Can you _promise _me that?" she shot back menacingly. "Can you honestly, with all your heart, vow to me that he wouldn't hurt you? Can you really trust him more than you trust me?"

"I…" Sylar stammered. "I can't go making…"

His girlfriend crossed her arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter, satisfied. "See? You know, Sylar, I do this thing called _caring about you. _And my freak-dar is going off like crazy around this dude. If you hang around him, you're gonna end up hurt."

"Niki," Sylar groaned, preparing to pull out his very last defense, one that was sure to have a mixed reaction from his fiery girlfriend. "You of all people should be sympathetic to him. You had Multiple Personality Disorder!"

It was like a dead weight had been dropped right in the middle of the room. Silence engulfed the space between Sylar and Niki, even their heaving breaths making no noise. Niki's eyes were wide with shock, offense and frustration all melded into her fair skin. Niki tried not to talk about her past with MPD on a normal basis, but to have it thrown back in her face like an excuse by someone she thought a lover…

Taking a deep breath, Niki managed to compose herself enough to grit out. "I was _crazy, _Sylar. So were _you_ at one point_._ And during that time, anyone who was around us to long ended up dead or injured, including my own son. So what does that tell you about your friend and what _he's _capable of?"

Sylar looked out the window, staring wistfully out onto the darkened bay. His lips were pursed, though not too tightly. There were no words to drown in his throat- he couldn't really think of anything to say in the first place.

Niki stood straighter and began towards him. Sylar expected her to either embrace him or smack him, but she turned out to do neither. She simply brushed against his arm as she walked past, emitting an aura of disappointment and worry that fell onto his chest, suffocating him.

Before she walked out the kitchen's second exit, the one that led to the bedroom hallway, she turned her head slightly to him and muttered, "I'm gonna go ask Orson to leave. Afterwards, you can grab some sheets from the linen closet."

Sylar's jaw dropped and he turned around to face her, sick of being bossed around. "You're _couching _me?"

"Happy birthday," she bit back, trumping him in their contest of passion.

She curved towards the door but Sylar caught her by the arm gently. Her limb was loose and unstruggling in his hand, which reassured Sylar more than anything. They'd never fought before, let alone over something so serious. At least this was proof that part of Niki wanted to hear him out.

"Wait, please,-,"

But before he could proceed with his apologies and laments, a crash and a boyish scream sounded from the living room. Sylar's eyes locked with Niki in terror for a split second before both of them were clambering through halls and over furniture to get to the den/dining room. And what met them there was something they could have never imagined.

They found Micah pressed against a wall by his own will, staring wide-eyed and terrified at Orson Huxley. Niki and Sylar joined the boy immediately, the blonde wrapping her son in a mothering hold while Sylar stood protectively in front. Before them, Orson stood in the middle of the room, a thick black smoke engulfing one of his outstretched arms. The smoke writhed like a shadowy snake, creeping towards the shivering family with grim slowness.

Sylar was at a loss for words. The only thing he could think of was to back up even further, pressing Niki and Micah behind him until they were hardly visible behind his broad frame. He watched, horrified, as Orson's normally blue eyes darkened with madness, his curvy mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.

What had he _done? _Niki had been right just moments ago, and he'd ignored her. Ignored her out of his own selfishness and need for companionship. He'd known Orson was odd, twisted, overly-affectionate from the very beginning…why was it so hard for him to believe that his new acquaintance was actually a dangerous imposter? Why did he chose to blind his own eyes just so he could have a friend? He let his grief for Peter and Claire stand as an excuse to put his family, the people he loved _now, _in the way of harm.

With a roar of remorse and wrath, Sylar threw a hand forward, shoving telekinesis in Orson's direction. The slender man, no, _creature_, flew back and slammed against the wall, knocking over a picture display. Niki shrieked and held Micah closer to her chest, crouching even lower behind her lover.

Sylar stepped forward, face wrought with grim lines. Orson was trying to stand up, all the black smoke dissipating around him, but Sylar didn't even give him the chance. With another yell worthy of a Roman soldier, Sylar called upon his cryokinisis, sending a blast of icicles towards his foe. Orson screamed in surprise as the attack struck him, crucifying him to the wall through his arms, chest, and legs.

Gabriel approached the man he was about to damn, immediately noticing that no blood poured from Orson's many wounds. In fact, the split lip that Orson gained after the telekinetic attack was already healing, a wisp of black smoke licking along the wound and knitting it up.

Sylar grabbed Orson viciously by the throat, evoking a wince from the other man. "What are you?" he growled deeply, nearly making chills run down Niki's spine on the other side of the room.

Orson hesitated to reply, his mouth open as he choked on his words. As Sylar tightened his grip, Orson let out a garbled groan, then settled into a state of almost…peace.

He was wearing his mischievous smile again. "Just a little pinch of death, comrade."

Sylar raised another hand in the blink of an eye, preparing to deliver a finishing strike. But Orson was faster. In an instant, he went from pinned by icicles against the wall to an explosion of obsidian smoke, slipping through Sylar's grasp as he dissolved into thin air. The smoke spread throughout the entire den, coating Niki, Micah, and all their possessions.

Sylar coughed and covered his eyes with one arm, waving the other one to clear his way. "Niki!" he called out. "NIKI!!"

"I'm here!" she cried, stretching a hand into the dark mist that thickened the air. Eventually, a large hand grabbed onto hers right as the remnants of Orson's presence began to dissipate.

As soon as Sylar could see Niki fully, her frazzled blonde hair and shocked eyes, he pulled her and Micah, who was still enlaced in Niki's tight motherhold, into a fierce embrace. She sighed against her lover's neck, relieved at the feel of his arms holding her. For all their fury in the kitchen, Sylar had made up for it in his fight against Orson. She never would have expected him to be such a protector.

It just would have been handier sooner.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into her cheek. "This was all my fault, you were right…"

"Shh, it's okay," she murmured back, kissing him gratefully below the ear. "Trust me, even I didn't see _that _coming…"

Sylar pulled away, still gently grasping her shoulders. He said nothing, purely stared into the depths of her blue eyes, the eyes that still _trusted him _miraculously. He thought glumly of how much he didn't deserve it.

Niki touched his face, still supporting the surprisingly quiet Micah with her other arm. "Listen. You're not Superman. You're human just like everyone else and you make mistakes. That's one of the reasons I-"

She ceased to spill her heart out, catching the horrified look he was casting downward. Niki's lips parted in confusion and she followed his sightline straight to Micah.

The teenager lay limp against her, eyes closed in unconsciousness. She'd been holding him so tight that she hadn't realized he'd passed out. Perhaps it was just the shock, or maybe she hadn't given him enough breathing room.

"Micah…" Sylar said warily, grasping the boy's shoulder and jiggling him a little. "Micah, wake up."

Niki mimicked him, patting the boy on the cheek with a sudden panic. Their attempts continued for several seconds before Niki finally realized what was wrong. With a dry sob she screamed, shaking her son with repeating wails of torment.

Micah was dead in her arms.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	5. Miracle Workers

Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

"**Miracle Workers"**

Niki's screams had morphed into hysterical sobs minutes ago, and even Sylar was barely able to contain his torment. The once vivacious and fun Micah lay pale and limp in his mother's arms, not a single wound or mark of death upon him. He almost could have been sleeping.

Sylar checked the boy's pulse for a third time, just to make completely sure they weren't living out a sick mistake. But no- Micah's heart was frozen, still, all the blood halted to a standstill in his veins. He was undoubtedly dead from Orson's smoke, though _how _was another issue.

Sylar felt bile burning his throat, and barely made it to the kitchen before he retched into the sink, shock and horror overwhelming him. Micah was dead, but God, no, this couldn't be possible, he was just a kid, just her _son…_

The man's upper body slumped onto the counter and he gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to let out the sobs welling up in his chest. No, he got them into this mess, and he was the one who was gonna get them out of it. If being a mutant had taught him anything, it was that death is never really the end. He could bring Micah back, good as new, all by himself.

Hopefully.

Sylar washed his mouth out with water from the tap and re-joined Niki in the den, whose wails had subsided into soundless weeping now. She sniffed and looked up at him, though there was no 'pity me' in her irises. The blue was a firm cobalt thorn, not a weepy baby's breath.

"I can do it." Sylar suddenly grasped one of Micah's flaccid hands with his own, eyes becoming wet and desperate. "I…I can bring him back."

"You have no clue what you're doing!" Niki snapped, gripping her son's other hand. "What if you screw it up? We should go straight to the Miracle Doctor. He's a professional."

"Niki," Sylar said, hushed, lids closed over swollen eyes. "Let me do this. Please. You said that we all make mistakes, that we're all human. And as humans, we have the right to _fix _those mistakes. I want to fix this. I _have _to."

They locked eyes across Micah's corpse, both teetering on the edge of crying. The blonde woman's shoulders slumped and her resentment was released with a crashing wave.

"I don't blame you for this happening," she whispered honestly. "But if you mess _this _up…I don't think I'd ever be able to forgive you, Sylar."

"I know," he said back, quietly, and he did know. But that risk had to be taken for Micah's life. Doctor Monroe was too expensive, and too much of a danger zone. This was Sylar's mess and he had to be the one to pick up the broken pieces.

Sylar swallowed and placed a hand gently on Micah's chest, right above the boy's stopped heart. Niki's gaze targeted him and he closed his eyes to block out his trepidation. Sylar had yet to attempt this before, always being too afraid. The stakes had never been this high though. It was now or never.

He let out a deep breath, playing a reel of happy Micah memories in his head. A buzzing in the back of his brain, a natural instinct that came with this power, told him to push all of that energy out of himself and into Micah's stiff corpse. To fill Micah's body with life and happiness once again. The electricity of love to restart his heart.

Just when Sylar was on the brink of figuring out this enigmatic power, his focus started to wane. Whether it was Niki's eyes laying on him in doubt, or his own internal wars, thoughts of Peter and Claire kept meandering through his mind. _I could have stopped this, just like I could have stopped their deaths. I'm too weak, and now I'm gonna lose Niki on top of everyone else, everyone's leaving me, I can't do this…_

Try as he might to erase Peter and Claire from his thoughts, their faces, stern expressions that didn't fit them, penetrated his brain. All he could see behind his eyelids was their disappointment, their absolute lack of sympathy towards him.

Sylar fought harder, pushing on Micah's chest with more fervor, trying to let the buzzing escape. Energy coursed through his bones, but it all ended up back in his head instead of in Micah. Sylar let out an agonized yell and dug his fingers into the fabric of the boy's t-shirt, his skin on fire with radioactive energy. He had to stop, to break it off…his powers were out of control and if he didn't end this soon…

So he let go, the connection slipping through his fingertips just like Orson Huxley. Soon, Sylar was facedown on the carpet, not quite sure how he'd ended up there, as Niki shook him anxiously by the shoulders.

"Sylar! Sylar, wake up!"

He groaned and grabbed on to her roughly, allowing her to help him sit up. There was a tint to the room when he opened his eyes, but Sylar suspected that his own vision was temporarily warped.

"Did I do it?" he asked hopefully, though his tone was feeble and his words intended as lies to himself alone. "Is he back?"

All it took was a sullen shake of Niki's head for him to get the answer. Sylar slowly craned his head and looked over at Micah, who was just as limp as before, except a radioactive burn had dissolved the middle of his shirt.

"I don't understand…" Sylar mumbled, crawling back over to the boy. "I was so close. I could feel him coming back! I can try again_..._"

Niki, flustered, stepped back to her son as well. "Sylar, you almost just blew the house up," she said sharply, gathering Micah in her arms. The boy was bigger than her, but her super-strength allowed Niki to lift him effortlessly. "I'm taking him to Monroe. That's the only other option."

Sylar wanted to protest, but no laudable argument formed in his mind. As much as he wanted to believe that their personal Wizard of Oz was a quack, the dude still hadn't been sued yet. He must have been doing _something _right.

Except…Sylar kind of wondered what the price tag would be on such a 'miracle'. He would pay for it if he could, but his inheritance wasn't even close to half a million dollars. What if Monroe really did serve only those who made Forbes's top 100 list?

_We'll find a way, _Sylar told himself restlessly, following Niki through the entranceway and pulling the door closed behind him. _There's no other choice_.

After the door slammed shut in Sylar's wake, the apartment fell silent once more. All except for the ear-shattering crunch of Peter and Claire's urns unexpectedly falling to the floor.

xxx

Doctor Monroe's emergency entrance was around the back of his clinic, which Sylar hastily swung into with their chipped Honda Accord. It was past eight o'clock and the traffic was heavy, but it could have been worse, he supposed. It _could _have been a Friday.

Sylar stopped the car under the overhang and unlocked Niki's door. He got out of the driver's seat and rounded the other side of the car, helping his girlfriend as she pulled her son's cadaver from the backseat.

"Have you got him? Will you be alright on your own for a minute?" Sylar asked quickly, steadying Micah in Niki's cradle.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Go park and meet us in there, okay?"

"Right." Before he could change his mind, or even think about it at all really, Sylar swooped down and pressed a kiss on her cheek. Any gesture of affection was needed at this point. There weren't very many ways to woo a girl after you inadvertently get her son killed.

Sylar kept his eyes on her even as he climbed back into the driver's seat. He watched her restlessly until she entered the building, nurses swarming her in all directions, and then Sylar finally hit the gas pedal.

It wasn't hard to find a parking spot near the front, and within moments he was jogging towards the ER lobby, joining Niki in a chaotic boxing ring of 'Stay calm's and 'Let me see the damn doctor!'s. The nurses were already loading Micah onto a rolling bed, strapping him in so he wouldn't fall off.

"Ma'mn, we need you to please wait here and fill out the appropriate information while we take your son back to our operating room."

"I want to be there with him," demanded Niki. "He's just a kid! I'm not letting him go through it alone!"

The nurse looked fatigued and impatient. "We understand. We'll bring you to him as soon as he's awake, but for best results, the doctor needs to see him immediately."

"Let me-," Niki repeated, but stopped when she felt Sylar's hand on her shoulder. She turned her head, looking at him with pleading doe eyes. He merely pulled her closer, holding her to him with a one-armed embrace.

"Take him," Sylar said meekly to the nurse. "We'll fill out the forms while we wait."

The young woman gave him a relieved smile. "Thank you," she said gratefully, grabbing a clipboard from the receptionist's desk and stepping back over. "Come with me. You can wait outside your son's room."

Sylar thought about correcting her, saying that_ it's_ _her son, not mine, _but he didn't have the heart right now. Besides, it felt just the same. He felt as if a piece of his own flesh and blood was being carted away to the mysterious Miracle Doctor in that moment, as if Micah _was _the creation of both him and the woman in his arms.

Sylar and Niki, still closely entwined, headed down the hall after the nurse with the clipboard. The woman in white slowed somewhat as they strode along until she walked parallel to them. She looked up at Sylar, who seemed to be the more stable one of the couple.

"This probably won't make much of a difference in your decision for our services, but I think you should be informed that Doctor Monroe has quite a high charge fee on those whom he revives."

"Oh, we know," Sylar replied somewhat bitterly. He lowered his voice and leaned in a bit closer to her, trying to keep his words away from Niki. "But out of curiosity…about how much will it be?"

The nurse looked fairly helpless. "It depends. You might get a sympathy discount from the Doctor this time, cause the patient's just a kid, you know? But it usually runs about 350,000."

Sylar quickly did the math in his head. "Really?" He let go of Niki abruptly, stopping in his tracks. "I can handle that then, all at once. I'll give you my account information right now."

Niki blinked at him. "Sylar? What are you doing?"

"My inheritance," Sylar explained hastily, sounding noticeably excited. He turned back to the nurse. "I'll cover the whole bill. I just need a pen…"

The young assistant timidly handed him one and he scribbled his numbers in the margin of the fill-out form. Niki still hadn't picked up her jaw from the floor.

She exclaimed, "You can't do this! That's everything Peter left you! All your savings! You'll be bankrupt!"

Sylar brushed off her points as though he hadn't even heard them. He finished up writing out his account information and handed the pen back to the bemused nurse. Then, he gently approached Niki, placing his hands her cheeks.

"I'm not arguing with you on this. You have enough weights on your shoulder right now, Niki. Let me help you, please." He sounded almost like he was begging. "Peter left me so much more than just money. And Micah is far more valuable than anything I could waste it on. I can't think of a better way to spend it."

A couple choked noises came out of Niki's throat before she was being vigorously led down the hall once again, one of Sylar's hands resting lightly between her shoulder blades. After a trip up an elevator, they reached a T-shaped intersection where the main thoroughfare met a strip of hospital rooms. The nurse pointed to one across the hall labeled 1407 and then to a small bench next to it.

"Micah's in that room right now. When the operation is done, the doctor will come out and introduce himself."

"Does he need any introduction?" Niki scoffed as she sat down, and it came out with more bite than she meant. The nurse seemed to understand.

"He likes meeting the families of everyone he saves," the girl elucidated, before handing Sylar the clipboard and pen, then heading back towards the lobby.

Sylar bit his lip, just enough to make it pinken, before looking over at Niki. She was staring back, and they let out a sigh in unison. However, though they sat next to each other on the jagged hospital waiting bench, not a single inch of skin was touching anymore.

Sylar cleared his throat and looked down at the information they were supposed to fill out. "Let's see…" he began. "What are Micah's allergies and general medical history?"

When Niki didn't answer, Sylar flitted his eyes up to peek at her, see if she was simply mulling over the question. Instead, he saw that she was staring straight back at him, an expression of hopeless, tired joy on her face. Then, letting out a sudden and slightly broken laugh, she fell forward, placing her forehead on the edge of Sylar's shoulder. Her body racked with giggles that kind of sounded like snivels.

Sylar set the clipboard on his lap, freeing up his arm to put around Niki. He leaned back into her as her chuckles turned to full-out sobs, letting his chin rest on the top of her head.

What had he gotten them into?

xxx

The San Francisco Bay was nearly as dark as the night sky itself, all the stars blotted out by the city lights. A lithe woman sat by the shore, not far from the Golden Gate Bridge. Her feet were dipped in the water, with all its dirt and filth sinking into her porcelain skin, staining the cells...

But that's how Leelee liked it.

There were footsteps behind her, barely audible, like a gust of air was coming over to chat. And when she turned around at breakneck speed to greet her visitor, a smirk came on her full lips at the metaphor. The man before her could definitely be described as obsidian smoke.

"I thought I'd find you out here," Orson smiled, sitting down next to her. He sat a bit closer to the land though, choosing not to get his feet wet in the murky bay. "This is rather unattractively disgusting, you know."

The Asian woman shrugged demurely. "What can I say? It's just who I am."

Orson chuckled a little, knowing how true that really was. He gazed out onto the murky waters and furtively inquired, "How much longer till you…"

She twirled a lock of black hair around a finger and let out a playful breath. "_Oh, _I don't know. Probably not till morning. Don't want to scare the kiddies with too much all at once, do we? And it'll be on Christmas Eve, Orson! Red and festive!"

They looked at one another and snickered wickedly, the mood relaxed and easy unlike what was going on with their former "comrade." Orson was the one who observed it first, and Leelee, endowed with a powerful intuition when it came to the three others like her,looked up at him.

"Is the final one dead?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he cupped her sharply angled face and brought it to his own, kissing her softly on the lips. Any deeper and he'd taste the bitter tang of tobacco on her teeth, and though Orson loved his little angel of pestilence, there was only so much he could put up with.

The dark-haired man tilted his face, pressing his lips methodically up and down her cheekbones. "Yes. Just like every…last…one of them…"

Micah Sanders had been the ultimate domino to knock over in their grand plan. Of course, Orson and his partners had kicked off their events slightly sooner, prematurely, as soon as they confirmed the deaths of Peter Petrelli and Claire Bennet. Micah was a formality, a genius, but with no real understanding of his power. His death was simply a safety requirement. Peter and Claire had been the big guns, the _world _heroes. And once _they _were dead, the path was free…

Two things on their list had already been knocked off- the Havana Famine and the Sears Tower raids. The latter had been Orson's own personal handiwork, and the first was the doing of a fine chap named Edmund O'Connell, who currently resided in Egypt.

"How'd you kill the kid?" Leelee asked with interest, pawing at the tips of Orson's hair. He was nonchalant and charming once again, slipping his hands to her waist.

"Oh, can't you guess?" he smirked. "They don't call me Death for no reason."

xxx

Niki studied the box of tissues in her lap, distracting herself with the infinite flowery design on the cardboard. She absently felt Sylar sitting beside her. He was finishing up with the clipboard, even though they'd been waiting there for a good hour.

The woman caught sight of him and bluntly watched on at his meticulous work. Sylar wrote in beautiful all-caps, slowly fitting Micah's information within the blanks. He would occasionally ask her about something, insurance information and such, but he was otherwise silent.

Niki wondered if this was how he appeared when he worked on a watch. Eyebrows knitted together, back hunched, lips pursed, fingers gracefully bent…

Even though they weren't touching, after living with someone for so long she could sense him almost anywhere. They had an intuition about each other now and God help her, she didn't want to have to hate him for this. She loved him, quite honestly. Loved him even with all his mistakes and misjudgments, and social errs.

But this was her son. Micah meant more than anything. If this didn't work, could she still look at Sylar in the same way? She didn't _blame _him for Micah's death- that was Orson Huxley's fault alone. Sylar had been the one who tried to beat the madman into a pulp before he could do any harm. And what kind of woman would she be to expect Sylar, a powered human but a human nonetheless, to catch smoke in his bare hands?

In fact, the more she considered it, the more she felt _proud_. He stood up for their family when the danger was clear. He was a barrier in front of Micah and Niki with a firm posture, meaning every word of the phrase '_over my dead body.' _He'd attacked Orson to save them, even when his hands and mind weren't meant for violence. And most magnificently, he gave his entire inheritance to save Micah's life without even a second thought. Over a quarter of a million dollars, the leeway that he had to fall back, the escape from his normal life…it was sacrificed in an instant for her son, and Sylar showed not one kernel of regret for it.

Niki moistened her chapped lips and reached out with quivering fingers, eventually covering Sylar's hand with her own. He looked up at her in exhaustion, eyes drooping like a guilty, tired puppy's. Niki's heart broke and she sighed before burying her face in the crook of his neck.

"Thank you," she whispered against his skin, tightening her grip on his hand. Sylar looked away, and Niki could feel it in his muscles which rested under her cheek.

"Don't thank me. This is my fault in the first place."

"Sylar," She pulled back to look him in the eye. "Look at all the good you've gone tonight! Yeah, you made a mistake. But you've fought like hell to make up for it."

She swallowed and took a deep breath, preparing herself for what she was about to say. "When we walked into that den and saw what Orson was, I…I wasn't sure that I could trust you anymore. I really didn't know if I could rely on you to stand by me and protect my son, if you'd be on Orson's side, or if you'd just run. But you _protected us_. You tried as hard as you could and even when we had to come here as a last resort, to a place that you can't stand, you still gave up all that money without even thinking about it."

Sylar was at a loss for words, but his face still sagged forlornly. Niki brushed her wet eyes on the back of her hand and sniffed. Then, she covered their interlocked hands with her other palm and pressed her forehead against his.

"If tonight's proved anything, it's that…I love you."

Sylar's eyebrows rose on his forehead, an ironic smile finally forming on the curve of his mouth. "_You _love _me?" _he chuckled a little, rubbing his face with a calloused hand, and Niki blustered in misunderstanding.

"It's okay if you don't feel that strongly-," Niki began, but Sylar shushed her with a gentle finger against her lips.

"Niki," he groaned sheepishly. "I've been trying to say the same thing to you for _weeks_ now. I made a pact to tell you today, in fact. The last thing I expected you to do was beat me to it."

"Wh...really?"

"Yeah," Sylar continued to smile, bringing up a hand to guide her face to his. "I love you too."

Just like that. How hard was that, really? What had taken him so damn long to confess such a simple string of syllables?

Then again, the fact that she said it first _did _make it easier.

A loud murmur of conversation appeared on the other side of the hall, severing their kiss. Sylar and Niki looked across the hall and saw that the door to Micah's room had opened, and they could clearly hear his voice.

"Micah!" Niki gasped, standing up. Sylar stood too, holding her lightly by the biceps to restrain her from stampeding into the room.

"Shh. Hang on a second, he'll be right out," Sylar said soothingly, pulling her to his front. She let him hold her from behind without protest, internally knowing that he was right. However, more than one unlikely strand of fear suddenly shot into Niki.

"Oh, what if he's different?" she moaned, turning her head back so her face brushed against Sylar's cheek.

"What if he's like one of those Stepford Wives? Or what if he has amnesia and doesn't remember me or you or DL, or anything?"

Sylar held her tighter. "Don't worry. I'm sure if there were issues with the operation, the 'Miracle' Doctor would have been out of a job a long time ago."

"Indeed," agreed a crisp, unknown voice from in front of them. Sylar and Niki untangled from each other and looked over to the man who had spoken- the Doctor himself.

He was young; definitely younger than Niki and probably even younger than Sylar. Which of course made the practical Gabriel doubt that he was an actual "doctor" by degree. Unless this blonde Brit was some sort of child prodigy, there was no way he could do it without a certain government-authorized tattoo on his wrist.

Sylar's eyesight surreptitiously scanned downward, searching for a barcode. However, Monroe's long sleeves covered both his wrists. _Smart man, _Sylar acknowledged wryly.

Also, he didn't _look _like a doctor. Instead of wearing a labcoat and a stethoscope, the man wore a white dress shirt with a sweater vest, none of which was tucked in, and nice grey slacks. His blonde hair was styled neatly with gel, cut short but with a few hairs overhanging his forehead.

"Good evening. I'm Doctor Adam Monroe," the young man introduced himself, outstretching a hand.

Niki shook it, thunderstruck. "Niki Sanders. Micah's mom." She felt Sylar's hand brush against hers, reminding her of his presence. "I'm sorry," she swiftly bristled to the doctor, turning towards her lover. "This is my boyfriend…"

"…Sylar." He too shook the blonde man's hand, admiring the miracle worker's firm grip. "Or, Gabriel Monroe as the billing papers say."

"Monroe too?" grinned Adam. "Always good to meet another one."

"Niki keeps saying we're cousins or something," Sylar remarked, smirking. His girlfriend nudged him with her elbow, even more embarrassed, but Adam was good-natured.

He held open his long arms gracefully. "You never know, right? I've got quite a big family myself." Adam then stepped forward and wiggled his way between Sylar and Niki, placing one hand on each of their backs. "But how about I skip the dramatic music and cut right to the chase, eh? Your son is in perfect health," Monroe assured her. "In fact, he's even better off than he was before. Diabetes, asthma, allergies to penicillin- all of it's been washed away."

"Micah never had any of those, but thanks anyway," Niki smiled weakly.

The doctor breezily grinned back, showing perfect teeth. "Anyway, I'm sure you're much more eager to talk to Micah, than to me, right? So go on in and I'll be out here if you have questions, concerns, anything. Alright?"

"Great," Niki nodded quickly, grabbing Sylar's hand and nervously walking into the room. As soon as she laid eyes on her son, sitting up in his bed bright and perfectly alive, the entire world seemed to stop.

"Mom!" Micah cried happily, and his arms were full of Niki Sanders before he could even bat an eyelid. Niki's rushed words of elated nonsense were muffled by Micah's hospital gown.

Sylar stood back a bit, not sure of how the boy would react. But when Micah spotted him in the corner and called _his _name with just as much enthusiasm, there was no way Sylar could resist joining in on the group hug.

After all the tears had been shed and their initial excitement subsided, Sylar went back to his spot in the doorway, allowing Niki to have a silent moment with Micah. One of her slender hands ran over her son's cheek with tenderness only a mother harbored, and Sylar wondered how the same hand was capable of breaking a parking meter in half.

These abilities made their roles in life so blurred. He was Gabriel, or Sylar, or somebody, an ordinary librarian's assistant who needed therapy. But just a few hours ago, he'd crucified a man to a wall with icicles. Peter and Hiro were the only men he knew who could _be _their abilities. Every choice they made was defined by the power within them. But Sylar knew how he obtained his power: by cheating, stealing, and most of the time, he wondered if he was ever meant to have it at all.

A cough sounded behind him, and unbeknownst to him, he was about to face the same issue with Doctor Monroe himself. The blonde man was ten feet away, leaning against the far wall in mock causality. He gestured towards himself, beckoning Sylar over.

After one last longing gaze towards his family, Sylar slipped out of the hospital room without a sound. He walked towards Monroe, who said nothing as he stood up from the wall, meeting Sylar exactly eye-to-eye. Adam then touched Sylar's arm and led him to one of the darker parts of the hallway. Sylar followed, all defenses on guard after his last experience with a stranger. He looked nervously over his shoulder, into Micah's room. Niki and her son were still within his sight.

The British man stopped and turned, his voice low. _Finally someone I can talk to at eye level, _Sylar wryly thought, before focusing his attention back on the conversation at hand.

"You, Gabriel," Adam started. "Are you one of us too?"

"Us?" Sylar parroted. A dread began to well in the back of his mind, but he still wasn't quite sure what the doctor inferred.

Adam grabbed the cuff of his dress shirt and slid the material up his arm, revealing a pallid wrist. A green-inked barcode was etched over his veins, with the letters A. J. Monroe stamped underneath it.

"I saw one on your lady friend," Adam explained under his breath. "So consider your payment half-price for tonight."

Sylar's mouth opened in surprised awe as he finally understood. "Really? Thank you…a lot."

"It's nothing. I can afford it, believe me."

"I _am, _by the way," the amnesiac added in confirmation. "Metahuman."

Adam's eyes glinted piercingly over Sylar's shoulder, towards an empty spot on the wall. "We're still a minority in this world, sir. We've got to look out for each other, right?"

"Of course," Sylar nodded, bittersweetly reminded of Peter's perspective on the world. "Is that how you do it, then? You heal people?"

Adam screwed up his mouth knowingly, giving the carefully constructed response, "Not _exactly._ But you're getting warm."

He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaved chin and quickly changed the subject, to something that Sylar wasn't so keen to talk about.

"You' say you're paying for Niki's son's whole operation, right? Must really love 'em."

"More than anything in my life right now." Sylar confessed. "My twin brother died recently- that's where the money came from- and they've really been supportive. It was the least I could do in return."

"Twin," Adam shook his head in grief. "That's terrible. Absolutely awful…"

"I know. We weren't identical at _all, _but…I still loved him to death," Sylar agreed softly, looking to his feet. "Today's our 34th birthday, actually."

That caught Adam's attention. The doctor looked up with a start as if he'd been electrocuted, his eyebrows high on his forehead.

"Today?" he confirmed, trying to keep his voice steady. "As in December 23rd?"

Sylar glanced down at his watch. It was past midnight. He tiredly shook his head. "Oh, well, yesterday I guess. But yeah, the 23rd."

Adam smiled sympathetically, his face relaxing. "Christmas Eve eve. I always felt sorry for blighters like you. Birthday and Christmas in one."

Sylar smiled back without a word, sticking his hands into his pockets. Adam frowned a little and studied him more fiercely.

"You really do remind me of someone," he said slowly, as if analyzing every word. Then, his face brightened with jovial jest. "Maybe you're somewhere in the family after all, eh?"

He clapped Sylar amicably on the shoulder and ducked around the other Monroe, right in time to be confronted with a panting male nurse.

"There's got another emergency case," he declared breathlessly. "We're bringing him up now."

He handed Adam a clipboard full of information and then jogged off, white sneakers squeaking against the tile. Adam turned back to Sylar, already beginning to roll up his sleeves.

"Time to save another one," he said briskly, a small grin forming in the corner of his mouth. "I'll be back to check back on Micah soon. He looks pretty well now. He'll be fit to go home by morning."

"Great," Sylar said wearily. "I'll go talk to him and let Niki get some sleep."

"Good man." Adam let his watch linger upon Sylar a moment too long, right as things were about to get uncomfortable…and Sylar could have sworn he saw a glint of sadness in the doctor's crystalline eyes. But before the severed twin could ask, a hive of loud nurses approached the wizard of San Francisco, carting him off to help another Dorothy in despair.

xxx

The carpet under Sylar and Niki's mantelpiece was covered with broken ceramic and ashes of the dead. All was still- even the ceiling fan was shut off, bringing up the temperature of the house to a rough eighty degrees.

Though Sylar and Niki were hunting for a miracle downtown, they were utterly unaware of the miracle occurring in their own abode. Slowly, so tentatively that it was hardly noticeable in the dark, the ashes began to draw towards each other. It was if every grain of carbon was a chip of iron and there were magnets on either side of the room, pulling the dust into vaguely humanoid shapes.

Soon, there were two distinct forms being spun onto the carpet: one near the remains of the small, opal urn and the other next to a pile of broken sapphire porcelain. The ashes from the white vase were quicker, all those atoms shifting and knitting together, forming bones, organs, skin, hair…blonde hair that fell out of her scalp like a waterfall. All these parts eventually weaving together a perfect female form.

The woman, the Lilith of the mantelpiece, was completed just as her first man was getting started. She arose from the dust with a gasp of air, new lungs expanding and filling her chest with new breath, with new life. Collapsing to the carpet once again, shock and relief mingled in her heart, she couldn't help but notice the toned sculpture being formed about ten feet away from her.

His ashes were nearly finished forming. Black hair sprouted from his head, chest, face, arms…so much that the woman had to squint just to recognize him when he finally awoke as she had, groping for oxygen. His back arched off the ground, showcasing his muscles, which triggered the woman's very first thought of her new mind.

_Oh God. We're __naked. _

She clumsily got to her feet and grabbed a blanket off the loveseat, shielding her body from view just as her legs collapsed beneath her. They weren't used to this whole "walking" thing quite yet.

With another quick burst of improvisation, the girl grabbed a large couch pillow and threw it at her male counterpart, evoking a weird half-groan half-shriek from his parched throat. He nevertheless clutched it and held it firmly to his nether-regions when he realized where he was, and what exactly was going on.

Claire was staring at him from across the room. Their eyes locked when Peter glanced up.

"Holy _shit!"_

xxx

**To be continued…**


	6. RevivalsReveals

Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

"**Reveals/Revivals"**

"Peter? Is that you under all the hair?"

The brunette man scowled at the wide-eyed woman before looking down at himself, reeling as he recognized how right she was. "Whoa…what the hell happened to me?"

He looked up in time to catch the flying blanket that Claire threw at him. He gratefully wrapped it around himself, liking it a lot better than that scanty decorative pillow that previously resided over his loins.

Peter's head spun as he stood up, and his legs felt like hot rubber. The apartment around him zoomed in and out of focus, twisting with blurred colors and anti-geometric shapes. He groaned and Claire glanced back at him, noticing his discomfort.

"It'll go away in a second," she assured him without any semblance of tenderness. "Let your legs adjust."

She kneeled by the fireplace and investigated the urns, which both lay shattered to pieces on the carpet.

"What happened to _us_?" Claire whispered to the broken ceramic. "Where are we?"

"Luckily, that one's pretty obvious," Peter replied flatly, pointing to the giant atrium window, which Claire had failed to notice. The blinds were pulled back, offering a magnificent view of the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco Bay.

"Frisco!" The woman's jaw dropped and she swung her head back around at Peter in shock. "How'd we end up _here_?"

"A better question would be _when,_" Peter corrected her. "It could be ten years in the future for all we know." He spotted an illuminated tree in the corner and added, "But hey, at least it's Christmas."

He watched as her fresh face sunk in horror. Everyone they loved could be ten years older, dead even. It was unbearable. Claire's chin fell forward and touched her chest, shoulders hunching at the thought.

Peter almost apologized for scaring her, but couldn't muster up the emotion. In fact, he was feeling rather apathetic. Emotionless…and very disregardful towards the woman he was supposed to be in love with.

With a small grumble, Peter unsteadily separated himself from the couch and headed to the foyer, searching out something to tell him the year. There was luckily a calendar thumb-tacked above the entrance table, yet with no date circled. Still, it was enough to tell Peter that they'd only been gone about two thirds of a year.

"It's still 2013," he hollered back to Claire, who was checking herself out incredulously in the mirror.

The woman nodded absently, but was too occupied with running her fingers through her frizzy blonde curls, which fell literally to her waist. She also noticed with a wrinkled nose that her legs and underarms had gone _au natural _in the revival process.

"I'm gonna go take a shower," she declared slowly. "You should do something about your hair too. You look like the front-man for ZZ Top."

Peter buried his hand into the mop in question, a black and tangled mess which tumbled to his shoulders. Never in his life had he grown his hair quite that long, and it was rather itchy.

"Right," he agreed. "You go ahead. I'll find some scissors."

They went in opposite directions but brushed past each other in the middle, evoking an odd tension to arise. Peter stopped and turned around, watching Claire enter the bathroom. Should he have kissed her or something? Hugged her? Told her he loved her? They'd been separated for nine months, had died in each others' arms. The first thing they should have done after coming back to life was absolutely glomp each other.

But no, that didn't happen. There was this uncomfortable air of civility and over-politeness. Strangeness. It was almost like they didn't know each other at all. Or if they _had, _they were lovers _far _long-lost.

Peter went into the kitchen to find a pair of clippers. The whole place smelled like homemade cooking, and there were still pans full of noodles and meat on the countertop. Peter ran a finger over a slab of grilled chicken breast, picking up the marinades that glazed it, and brought the taste to his mouth. _Cold, _he observed. _Good, but cold. _

Eventually, he found what he was looking for in a junk drawer after plowing through a pile of screwdrivers and random kitchen gizmos. Whoever lived here definitely was a fan of odd inventions. There seemed to be a tool for every type of food-prep situation that one might encounter.

It was only when he headed towards the doorway, scissors in hand, that he noticed the intricate kit on the countertop.

Peter did a double-take, stepping two paces backwards to confirm his first belief. Indeed, these were undoubtedly watchmaking supplies. The plates and tools were particularly distinguishable. And of course, there was only one person he'd ever met who was into that kind of stuff.

This was _Sylar's _house.

Peter rushed back into the living room, taking an eyeful of all the framed photos which lined the apartment's walls. He passed them off as cheap decoration before, but on closer inspection, saw that these shots were all _his. _New York street signs, the sloping hills of Central Park, yellow taxis washed with a black and white filter. All these pictures had been stored in his box, the secret box he had stashed away in his Boston closet. Which was even more proof, really. There was only one person who had access to them: his brother.

Brimming with news, Peter shouldered his way into the bathroom, grabbing a towel off the rack to wrap around his waist. Claire was already soaking herself in a steaming hot shower, the curtain pulled all the way so he couldn't see her.

"Sylar lives here," he announced, running a hand over his hair to prepare it for shearing. "He's got all my photography framed."

"Nice," the girl replied emotionlessly.

Peter shrugged and turned towards the mirror, getting down to business. He rubbed his hand furiously across the mirror, fighting to keep the fog at bay so he could watch what he was doing. Yet Claire's shower had already caused an undefeatable cloud of steam to fill the lavatory. He shot a slightly disdainful look towards the tub but held his tongue, forced to deal with his mangy hair in the blind humidity.

He began hacking away at his locks with the blunt scissors, not paying particularly close attention to its symmetry. Right now, he just wanted it _short. _The whole _Lord of the Rings_ style really didn't do it for him.

Ultimately, he got it down to a piecy sort of look, wild, like black Anime hair. Claire abruptly spoke as he finished up with his pseudo-crew cut, stopping Peter as he reached for Sylar's electric razor.

"I didn't see you there," she said timidly over the roar of the showerhead. Peter paused, but continued in his grasp for the razor, flipping it on with a slow roll of his thumb.

"What do you mean?" He ran the spinning blades over his jaw, gentler now than he was with his haircut.

"I didn't see you in…in heaven, I guess."

Peter winced and muttered a swear as he cut himself on the cheek. Grumbling, he smeared a clear spot in the mirror once again and leaned forward, investigating the cut. A small slit of blood pushed through the broken skin and trailed down his cheek before the sliver cleared up, surprisingly more sluggish than usual.

Glaring and letting the mirror fog back up, Peter stood straight again and continued with his shaving.

"I don't know where I was," he answered Claire frankly. "All I remember is being in a field. Bugs flying everywhere. There were people too, but they wouldn't talk to me. It was like being in a crop circle full of zombies."

They sat in silence for a good five minutes, allowing Peter to trim up the rest of his body and get it looking relatively back to normal. By now, the aroma of Claire's shampoo was filling the small bathroom, making Peter rather dizzy.

Just when he was about to walk back into the living room, Claire shut off the shower and peeked her head out from the curtain, astounded. "Where could…?"

The mirror was still frosted, so he had to physically turn around and look at her. "I dunno. It wasn't Hell though. At least not the Hell I remember. I wasn't being _punished. _Everyone was lonely and upset over something, but no one was being _hurt." _He shrugged wordlessly and put his hands on the edge of the sink, muscles in his bare back rippling as he pressed his weight upon the porcelain in frustration.

Claire watched his profile in fascination, the way his biceps popped in such a position, every inch of his clean-shaven wet skin, the hang of that unruly black hair over his eyes, the way the bath towel clung to his hips without slipping all the way off…

Though Peter hadn't aged a day since she last saw him, he looked far older…far more grievanced. Even when the love in her heart felt lost and missing, she couldn't deny the lurch in her stomach from Peter's physical allure alone.

"Um…" she said awkwardly, wishing she was endowed with his telekinesis. "Can you pass me a towel?"

Peter broke out of his brooding reverie and grabbed a fresh ivory towel from the far wall. His hand brushed Claire's as he passed it to her, both of their skin warm from the humid mist. She shyly slinked back behind the curtain to wrap it around herself, denying her picturesque shape from his prying eyes.

He frowned slightly; they'd seen each other naked before. They'd even lain entwined in such a state for hours at a time. Yet, Peter wasn't hurt or surprised by her discretion. If she felt anything like he did at the moment, their love wasn't exactly what it used to be.

Time would heal it, he was certain. Time healed all wounds, even when the bearers were indestructible.

Claire emerged from the tub with pinkened cheeks, though Peter didn't know whether the flush was from the scorching water or the air between them. He studied her as she climbed across the porcelain divide, all the water droplets clinging to her tanned skin, and that blonde hair like a waterfall pouring down her back.

Peter cocked his head and reached forward, taking her off guard. She jumped with a little gasp, but his penetrating hazel gaze soothed her instantly. Peter wrapped one of her drenched curls around his index finger, nearly touching Claire's cheek while doing so. Her shivering body half-expected a compliment. She could recall, from their last life, how much Peter hated her hair dyed brown, how much he wished for her to Marylin Monroe it again.

However, he merely reached for the scissors on the bathroom vanity and stuck them into her palm. "Here. You might want to cut it." He suggested bluntly, giving a small tug to the lock of hair he held. Claire looked down at the metal shears in disappointment, avoiding Peter's eyes as he drew back his hand and brushed past her.

"And go fast," he added, walking out of the bathroom and into the hallway. "We've gotta find Sylar."

He headed down the hall and walked into what appeared to be the bedroom. The only furniture in there was a vanity/dresser with a mirror, and the bed itself. Peter smirked. Sylar always did like living modestly.

He stepped over towards the dresser to raid Sylar's clothes, even though he was sure that his brother, who had a good six inches and thirty pounds on him, didn't exactly wear the same sizes. But that wasn't the shock that came when Peter pulled open one of the drawers. What really surprised Peter was the pile of lacy bras and panties.

Peter's eyebrows rose. Either Sylar's head had cracked like an egg after his death, or there was a woman around. And taking note of all the eyeliner, Glow by J-Lo and self-tanners there were sitting around on the vanity's counter, Peter could safely surmise that it was the latter.

A live-in girlfriend, huh? What a nine months he had missed…

Peter grabbed a couple of the woman's undergarments, then found a set of her pants and a blouse. He took them over to the bathroom and dropped them off in front of the door, knocking lightly on the wood to get Claire's attention.

"Yeah?"

"I found some clothes for you. They're outside here if you want to get 'em after I go."

A pause. "Okay."

Peter went back into the bedroom to grab some clothes of his own, but stopped short in front of the mirror, finally realizing something for the first time. With all that hair he'd failed to see it, and the mirror in the bathroom was so painted with mist that he didn't spot it then either. But as he stepped closer to Sylar's vanity, eyes scanning over his reflection, the truth was undeniable.

Every one of his scars from Sophia Linderman was gone. Vanished, like he'd never bent burnt. Instead, smooth, tanned skin took the place, seamlessly knitting into the rest of his flesh. Peter ran a hand over one of his arms, peering closer. Absolutely flawless. Not a freckle, not a mole, not a scar. This new body was utterly untainted by a lifetime of damage.

_That's why Claire's hair is blonde again, _it dawned on him. _The dye didn't take when she came back. _

Peter pulled on some of Sylar's smaller clothes, grumpily having to cuff his sleeves and pant legs like a reject from the Brat Pack. He then grabbed a watch off the dresser, which was totally a woman's watch but he felt bare without one, and deftly strapped it to his left wrist. Peter took one long and critical look at himself in the mirror before feeling satisfied, and heading out to the living room to wait for Claire.

She was still in the shower, but the woman's clothing he'd brought her had been taken inside. Peter acknowledged it mentally as he passed by the bathroom, and he briefly wondered if they'd fit her.

He walked by the dining table, catching all of the half-eaten plates of food. There were four serving sets out, and a bundle of three 'Happy Birthday!' balloons in the corner of the room. Peter's mind thought to Sylar again, connecting the dots. _Right, we're twins. His birthday's in December too. December 23__rd__. Is that today? _

If that was indeed the truth, Peter let out a small scoff. He'd come back to life on his birthday. How poetic.

_I could be thirty-four right now, _he suddenly realized, stomach flipping upside-down. _Thirty-four years old and I still don't look a day over twenty-five._

The man headed for a recliner, but hesitated as he caught sight of the mantel over the fireplace. It was almost tackily decorated, covered in photos and rather odd things, like receipts and movie ticket stubs. Peter's eyes narrowed in interest and he walked over to it.

It was only when he saw the mementos at point-blank did he identify everything upon this mantelpiece. Like the photographs on the walls, all these little knick-knacks came from his secret box. The box he told Sylar _never _to open, that nosy bastard.

Peter sighed and rested his forehead against the mantel, now feeling angry with himself. There was no reason to be so irate. Sylar had thought him dead, and maybe the opening of Pandora's Box had been a life or death necessity. Peter didn't have the right to judge at this point in time. All he could do was stand a bit straighter and gaze forlornly at his sacred items of years past, a lot of which he hadn't seen in very long time.

Yes, most of it he could forgive. He _should _have forgiven all of it, he knew, but Peter never claimed to be perfect. Because there was one little piece that stood out so sacredly in his heart that his insides burned when he thought about how it had ended up here.

Sitting in the middle of the mantelpiece was Angela Petrelli's silver engagement ring. Peter reached out and took it between two tentative fingers, holding it close to his eyes in disbelief. The engraving was still intact, perfect like the day it had been carved. _To Claire. From your hero._

Oh the irony, he internally moaned. The ring still hadn't seen hide nor hair of Claire's delicate hand, even when they _had _been together. It was obsolete again, now. Missed the era.

Yet there was no way this thing was gonna sit over the living room for all to see. This one little band of platinum was the _one thing _in that box which was truly secret. It was the reason for the box's sanctity. And since there was no other safe place to put it in that moment, Peter decided the best course of action would be to keep it on his person at all times.

Right as Peter slid the silver-ring into the pocket of his borrowed (and way too long) jeans, Claire emerged from the bathroom. Her body was also swallowed in Niki's clothing, but she still managed to look sexy with her new jagged, shoulder-length haircut.

"So," she finally asked Peter, leaning in the bathroom's doorframe. "Where's Sylar?"

xxx

The more the hours progressed, the thinner the crowd at Doctor Monroe's grew. Soon, the only people to be spotted in the halls were random nurses and the doctor himself, who finally seemed to get a break.

Sylar glanced down to his lap where Niki's head rested. He smiled silently and ran his hand over her hair, caressing the blonde locks. She was sleeping soundly for the first time all day, and so was Micah. But Sylar's insomnia had struck again, plaguing his mind with restless thoughts and knotted worry. He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, continuing to pet Niki's hair to sooth himself more than her.

The man's search for sleep was interrupted by the same redheaded nurse who had lead them up here. She whispered his name, his real name, and he turned his face to acknowledge her. The woman looked down to his lap guiltily, and that alone told Sylar that his family's relaxation was about to be disturbed.

"I'm sorry to barge in, but the doctor and I need to speak to you."

Sylar blinked in puzzlement for a moment, before carefully getting up from the hospital couch. He put a small throw pillow under Niki's cheek to substitute for his absence, and then stepped out of the room with Adam's nurse.

Monroe himself came over from behind, his normally serene face turned into a fierce scowl. Sylar looked from the doctor to his assistant, clearly still perplexed.

"Is there a problem?"

The nurse spoke up. "There are a couple people here to see you. A man and a woman. We wanted to inform you before we let them up."

"People?" Sylar panicked, his mind immediately jumping to Orson and Leelee.

But Adam Monroe finally dropped the bomb that made Sylar's heart beat even harder. "The man claims to be your brother."

Sylar's jaw dropped. "That's not possible. My brother is dead, cremated. He can't be alive."

"You said your_ twin_ brother is dead," Adam corrected him. "This appears to be your _little _brother. He's much younger. Mid-twenties. Short. Also, he's got a cute blonde girl with him, looks to be the same age."

When Sylar didn't reply, Adam took the liberty of assumption, beginning to prattle on about finances. "You know…you mentioned that the payment for Micah's operation came from your inheritance, which came from your brother. I surmise now that such was just a metaphor, and the whole reason he's marched down here is because he wonders why 100,000 just dropped out of his bank account. Sound likely?"

"You're mistaken," Sylar said unstably. "I had _one _brother. And believe me, he's deader then the dirt under this hospital. Besides, his girlfriend- who is also _dead, _might I add- was brunette, not blonde."

"Would you like us to escort them up here anyway?" The redhead offered. "That way, you can see for yourself."

Sylar was over-whelmed with emotion, his insomnia attacking him even more under all this stress. Racing feelings, distorted vision, lightheadedness…He had to press a hand against the wall to keep his legs from collapsing. Adam was at his other side quickly, letting Sylar use his body to hold himself up.

"Do it," Sylar breathlessly allowed. "Bring them up. I want to see them."

Adam helped Sylar over to a waiting chair, before stepping back over to the nurse. He leaned towards his white-coated redhead, murmuring furtively in the woman's ear. She gave him a look of reluctance before heading off towards the elevator. Sylar watched on, tense, until Adam turned back to him.

"They'll be up shortly," he clarified. Adam peered at Sylar for a few seconds, teeth worrying at the corner of his mouth. "Here, I'll get you some water…"

"That'd be great, thanks," Sylar nodded gratefully, resting his forehead in his hands. He took a deep breath and tried to slow his mind down to a normal pace, setting his thinking back on a normal track.

_So it's obviously not Peter and Claire. Just because Claire used to be blonde doesn't mean it could be her. There are lots of blonde women in this world. And Peter isn't twenty-five, he's thirty-four like me. Not to mention that Peter is _scarred _on his face, which is a pretty trademark sign and Monroe neglected to notice it. They must be imposters then. Shapeshifters maybe? Or perhaps they can create illusions like Candace, that woman in Vegas. Wait, maybe it's Candace herself. And what if it's Orson and Leelee for real, what if they can do something like this and they've come to finish us off?_

_What have I done?!_

Sylar bolted out of his chair with fright, starting to sprint towards the elevator. But he was too late. The lift's doors opened abruptly when he was only halfway down the hall, and Sylar skidded to a stop with a loud _squeak. _

Then, all he could do was just _gawk. _Because stepping out of the elevator, two pairs of eyes locked right on him, were Peter and Claire.

It wasn't obvious at first- the Peter and Claire he remembered looked 'normal'.Peter with his short crew cut and scarred cheek, and Claire with her pin-straight brown hair, part down the middle...

But his friends, the ones who were steadily getting closer to him, both looked utterly bleak. Claire's hair was honey again, but in a sharp cut which fell to her shoulders. Peter didn't fare much better- it looked like a weed whacker had been taken to his head; thick black locks sticking up in all directions. The type of just-rolled-out-of-bed style that rock stars only dreamed about.

Plus, both of their bodies were engulfed with too-big clothes, Peter's being the more obvious of the two. Sylar squinted at his brother's top, his face screwing up in confusion. _Is that__** my**__ shirt? _

"Sylar?" Peter's voice came out in a hoarse whisper, like his ancient vocal cords were scratched with ash. Which, Sylar considered, probably wasn't too far from the truth. Yet the amnesic was still comforted by the sound of his brother's voice, a sound which he'd longed after for nearly a year.

"You seem so surprised to see me," Sylar weakly pointed out, almost chuckling. "_I'm_ not the one who was dead."

Claire stood a good ways behind Peter in silence, letting the twins have their reunion alone. Sylar glanced at her from over Peter's shoulders and saw her face turned to the floor. The man looked back at Peter, who was a mere twenty inches in front of him. Close enough to reach out and touch.

"Son of a bitch," was the first complete, naturally sardonic thing out of Peter's mouth, though his tenor was rather droning. He pulled a silver ring out of his pocket and held it up. "You went through my stuff."

"I wouldn't have had to if you decided to stay alive on me." Sylar's wit struck his brother back with it's blunt edge, but Peter didn't wince. He merely stared, eyes flitting back and forth like an R.E.M of speechlessness.

Sylar didn't blink either. "Is it really you, Peter?" he finally asked, soft and trepid.

Peter nodded slowly, moistening his lips before whispering, "It's me. I think."

If asked later, Sylar couldn't be certain what came first- Peter in his arms or the stream of garbled endearments that fell from his mouth. Eventually though, they were one and the same. Two long-lost twins in a fierce embrace at one AM in a hospital run by an eccentric British miracle doctor.

"H-how did this happen? How did you…"

"I dunno," Peter shook his head, wild tresses rubbing against Sylar's ear. "We just _did_."

Sylar let out a dry sob and held Peter tighter, burying his face in his twin's hair. "Oh, God…you've no idea how much I missed you, both of you. I love you, Peter."

Peter didn't return the sentiment, but merely said, still in that feeble monotone. "Missed you too."

He pulled back and took a good look at what nine months had done to Sylar. On the bright side, he seemed pretty healthy. Peter could feel his brother's new biceps when they embraced, and he was in no way malnourished (which the smaller man had to wryly attribute to the mysterious girl Sylar was hiding). But in his face, Sylar looked beat. Bags hung under his brown eyes, his skin was pallid and his lips chapped. Most shockingly of all, his hair was even on the brink of going grey.

"How did you find me here?" Sylar asked, amazed, breaking Peter out of his trance. "Molly's power?"

"Yeah," Peter nodded again, taking a step back and letting Sylar's arms fall away from him. He frowned a bit and scratched behind his ear, out of the blue adding, "It's was hard though. I dunno. I guess my powers are just a little rusty."

"You'll be fine," Sylar said brightly, clapping him on the back. "A good night's sleep will do both of us well."

Peter shrugged acceptingly, lips sealed once again. Sylar's mouth tilted into a slight slash at his brother's lack of emotion and/or things to say, but he passed it off as nothing more than trauma. Imagine dying in a doomsday machine in Washington, waking up nine months later on the other side of the country, then being throw back into the lives of your loved ones. It wasn't natural. It wasn't something that humans had an instinct to react to, so Peter was simply at a loss for decisiveness.

Claire didn't seem to be much more chipper. When Sylar strode over to her and picked her up into a hug, spinning her around in jubilation, to say she was half-hearted is an understatement. The woman gave his shoulders a polite squeeze as he set her down but other than that, her eyes strayed far from his.

"Am I right in believing that pigs have just flown?" quipped a voice from the other side of the hall. Adam stood, watching the entire action with a Styrofoam cup of water in his hand. He toned down his voice and walked over to the trio. "Is this really your brother, Mr. Gabriel?"

Peter blinked in surprise, his smile making a maiden voyage since his rebirth. It was the first time he'd ever heard anyone refer to Sylar by his real name.

"He is." Sylar was at a loss for anything more intelligible than that, so he merely took the water off Adam's hands. "I don't know how, and neither do they."

"Miracle," Peter muttered emotionlessly. Off the young man's comment, Adam cocked his head craftily.

"You, Mister…"

"Peter Petrelli."

Adam suddenly appeared startled. "Petrelli?"

"What about it?" Then, Peter rolled his eyes in understanding. "Oh yeah, the President, right?"

"No, not that. It's nothing." Adam waved a hand. "You just…you two go by different last names?"

Sylar groaned. "_Long _story. Spare us, will you?"

Adam smiled upon him tightly before turning back to Peter with his original statement. "You, Mr. Petrelli. You weren't one of my patients at some point were you?"

"Uh, _no_." Peter responded sharply, looking the doctor up and down warily. "Who are you?"

"Sorry," Sylar apologized for his brother. "I haven't told him anything about Micah, or _this _yet."

"Wait, Micah? Micah Sanders?" Peter interrupted, turning to Sylar with a sly smirk. "Your girl's _Niki_ isn't she?"

Sylar swallowed, embarrassed. "I'll tell you all about it later, I promise."

"You better."

"_Anyway,_" Adam continued dramatically, holding out one of his hands for Peter to shake. "The name's Adam Monroe, sir. _Doctor _Adam Monroe, actually. A Miracle Doctor whom your brother here has so kindly come to for services."

"What are you, a genie?" Claire finally spoke, her voice equally as scratchy, flat, and devoid of inflection as Peter's. "Did he _wish _us back or something?"

Monroe grinned at her, good-natured. "No, my dear, I'm afraid my powers aren't quite that broad. Plus, his reason for being here has nothing to do with either of you. Which is why this whole muddled thing seems so coincidental to me."

"I'm here to get Micah healed," Sylar clarified, pained. "He was killed earlier this evening."

Claire's jaw dropped, her face showing emotion for the first time. "Poor Micah. Is he okay!?"

"Good as new," Adam beamed, gesturing to the ER room where the Sanders were staying. "You can go visit him and his mother if you'd like."

"Yeah, I will," Claire accepted his offer with some actual keenness, brushing past the three men and heading towards the door. Peter followed after her gracelessly, and Sylar noticed, frighteningly, how the supposed lovers hardly even looked at each other as they entered Micah's room.

"There must be another miracle doctor around that I don't know about," Adam mused, face contorted in thought. "What do you say?"

"I think that 'doctor' might be me, Monroe," Sylar answered, worried. "Peter and Claire aren't themselves, and the more I think about everything that happened tonight…I think I might have brought them back myself on accident."

The doctor's eyes widened, and then narrowed just as quickly. "You neglected to mention that ability."

"I didn't think I could even…" Sylar began. He looked into Adam's eyes, befuddled. "I supposedly have this power where I can bring people back to life."

"Supposedly? How can you not be _sure?_"

"Long story. Again."

"Ah."

"But I've never tried it before," Sylar continued. "Not until tonight. I thought I could maybe bring Micah back and I almost did. Except, the whole time, all I could think about was Peter and Claire. And it didn't work- Micah was still dead. But is it possible that maybe my power got misdirected or something?"

"Search me," Adam reeled back, clueless. "I just shoot 'em up with my blood. It's regenerative. Like liquid gold."

Sylar sighed. "If only I could have it that easy."

Adam put his hand upon Sylar's shoulder and turned him to face the opposite hall. His voice was low once again when he next spoke, words like snakes searching for information.

"Here's a better question for you," the doctor proposed. "One that you can probably answer. Who the hell are Peter's parents?"

Sylar took a deep breath, trying to decide how to approach the story. For a moment, he considered not even telling it at all. Could he truly trust Adam? A conniving money-hungry genie wannabe with a clear love for plastic surgery? Considering everything he'd been through with Orson and Leelee, could he truly trust _anyone?_

There was something about the doctor though. Something very pure and open that Sylar could put faith into. A weird sort of connection buzzed between them, almost like they were good friends in another life.

Sylar dithered. "Well…we were both adopted, okay? That's why our last names are different. Anyway, Peter was_ raised_ by Angela and Arthur Petrelli, up in New York, and with Nathan Petrelli as his brother. But our biological parents are totally different. One of them is dead, actually."

"Petrelli. See, I _know _that name. Know it _very _well, unfortunately."

"Because of Nathan, right? He made the mutant laws." Sylar already knew that was the answer. Adam was bar-coded after all.

Yet the doctor shocked him by shaking his head. "Oh no. _Long _before that. I knew Angela and Arthur. And that, on top of several other things I've learned about you two tonight, which I'd originally passed off as coincidence…" He rubbed a hand over his gelled hair. "By God, now that I see your brother face to face…"

"Our mother was named Emily Freis-Monroe. I took my last name from her." Sylar peered at him suspiciously. "Does that ring any bells for you?"

Adam snorted grimly as all the dominos in his theory fell right into place. "The whole Notre Dame, Mister Sylar. Emily Freis was my _wife_."

xxx

**To be continued…**


	7. Reunions

Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

"**Reunions"**

"Emily was your _wife?" _

"Yes, and mother of the children whom I never got to meet!" Adam's face softened. "Until now, possibly…"

"Then where were you?" Sylar snapped, rounding on him. "If you wanted to see us so much, then why didn't you take us in after Emily died?"

"I _couldn't,_" Adam urgently insisted. He turned away for a moment, and then did another about-face back to Sylar. Sylar watched on, confused, as Adam clearly struggled with what to say and what to omit from the story.

Finally, the doctor sighed in defeat. "I was locked up by an organization called The Company. Four walls and a bed, son. For _years._"

"Yes…I know about them," Sylar started to nod, tentatively. He couldn't remember actually being captive by The Company, but Peter had mentioned it before. Sylar took a step closer to Adam and pulled back his lapel, revealing two black hatch marks. "I'm pretty sure they gave me these scars."

Adam peered closer, having no objection whatsoever. "You're absolutely right. It looks like you were just a temporary prisoner, though."

"I don't recall it," Sylar confessed. "I remember the last seven years. Before that, it's nothing but black."

He readjusted his collar, then crossed his arms over his chest conversationally. "Why did they keep you for so long?"

Adam took a long time to answer that question too. "Because they thought I was dangerous to them. I am ashamed to say that I was the one who _formed _the Company. Our ideas eventually clashed- I wanted to destroy my creation and they wanted to take it over, etcetera, etcetera. That's about it in a nutshell."

"But wait a minute. With Emily…you didn't her pregnant while in _custody_, did you?" Sylar inquired, bewildered and clutching the top of his head with both hands. God, now this was really starting to hit him and it was too much to take in at once. There was no way Adam could be related to him at all, let alone his father. Not only was the man barely thirty, but he was _blonde. _

Adam coyly elucidated, "It was the seventies, son. No windows and no security cameras back then, when The Company was cheap. Believe me, my beloved Emily and I were certainly given enough solitude to make children."

"The seventies?" Sylar frowned. "How could you have made Peter and I back then when you don't even look like you were born till_ after_?"

The kind doctor grinned, chuckling at the question he'd heard so many times prior. "I assure you, I'm older than I look." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Try four _centuries _older."

Sylar felt like all he'd done tonight was gape, which was what he was, once again, doing. "Four hundred years old." He whispered it in marvel, then glanced back up at Adam. "Does that mean you're like Claire, then? Spontaneous regeneration?"

"Whatever they're calling it these days." Adam shrugged. "I've always just known it as Immortality. How else would my miracle blood allow me to set up this business?"

Understanding dawned on Sylar and his thoughts immediately jumped back to Claire. "So could she do that too? Save people by transfusing her blood?"

Adam clicked his tongue and gave his possible son a terse shake of the head. "Probably not. It depends on how long she's had it." After his short rebuke, his eyes suddenly raised to meet Sylar's square on, his expression enigmatic. "She's that blonde that walked in here, isn't she? And she's like me?"

"I suppose, yes," Sylar replied, half-sure. "Have you ever met another regenerator?"

"Never a _female _one," Adam responded, arching an eyebrow significantly. Sylar glanced uncomfortably over into the emergency room, his gaze lingering on Peter. He turned back to Adam and summoned a way to shy from all things Claire.

"What about my mother? Did she have any powers?"

"Clearly not immortality," Adam answered, grimly dry. "No, though. None that I knew of. If she had, the Company would have brought her in and experimented. I always tried to keep her out of it, but I guess I should have stayed away myself." He looked to the floor, absolutely sober for the first time of the night. "If I hadn't gotten myself locked up, I could have saved her."

"Childbirth," Sylar said flatly, voicing what they both knew. He quickly expounded, "It was in the obituary."

"That's what they told me too," Adam nodded. "Glad to hear at least one thing out of their mouths was true. I was even doubtful when they told me I had sons."

"How much did you know about us?" Sylar pressed, more timidly.

"They didn't even tell me your names," Monroe revealed bitterly, beginning to pace the hall with his fingers drumming absently on his chin. "They just walked in, told me I had twin boys, and that Emily was dead. The night was December 23rd…exactly thirty-four years ago to the day."

"That proves it then," Sylar said. The shock was finally starting to set in. "You _really are _our father."

Adam smirked benignly. "Unless dear Emily had some fun with our milkman, I'd have to agree. And don't get caught up in the Punnet squares. You and Peter definitely seem to favor her side of the family. Except for your height, of course, which clearly came from me. You still look strikingly like her father Christopher. Peter seems to resemble his uncle, her brother Harry, more. Yes…if I recall their faces correctly…"

"Must be weird for you, then. Meeting your kids when they already look older than you do."

Adam cringed a bit self-consciously. "I know I sound horrible saying this, but I do prefer it that way. Children are _really _not my forte. I had two before you, back in the 1700's. I pretty much swore them off after that."

When Sylar didn't reply, Adam stepped forward, pressing both hands on his son's shoulders. "But I swear, if I had _known, _I would have been there, at least a little. The circumstances-,"

The other man cut him off. "Don't worry about it," Sylar stared right into his father's eyes with solemn honesty. "Listen, I don't even remember my childhood. And Peter's family wasn't exactly _warm_ to him_, _but they did put a roof over his head. I'm sorry that Emily died, especially because of us. But there's no way to change the past. Besides, I really can't complain. It all turned out okay in the end."

Adam smiled, visibly relieved. "I think you're starting to become my favorite," he chortled, stepping back once more. "Definitely your mother's son. Emily always looked on the bright side of things."

Sylar smiled back, tiredly so. "When you live with Peter, you almost have to. He can be cranky sometimes."

"Opposites, eh?"

As Sylar opened his mouth, another voice spoke for him.

"Guilty," called Peter, emerging from the ER. "Even down to weird things. He's left-handed, and I'm not."

"Eavesdropping, much?" Sylar quirked an eyebrow, though a slight nervous spin churned through his gut. He sincerely hoped that he could tell Peter this whole "family" business himself, and not get their estranged father involved in the storytelling. Adam was a nice guy, but Peter had barely said two words to the man.

"No," Peter shrugged. And to Sylar's great relief he asked, "But what'd I miss?"

xxx

Niki Sanders never really got to know Claire, which she always sort of regretted. They were the only girls in what seemed like the Boys Club of Superheroes, which automatically tagged them as allies by estrogen. Yet when Claire, Peter, and Sylar crashed at Niki's house on their last adventure, the two women still never got a chance to _talk. _After seeing the outcome of said last adventure, Niki decided that now was better than any time to really get things off on a good foot.

"I'm so glad to finally have a girlfriend out here," Niki beamed warmly at the younger blonde. Claire was coiled up in a corner chair while Niki stood by her sleeping Micah. The widow gently stroked her son's forehead, brushing the curls out of his eyes. "San Francisco is a lonely town for me."

"Why?" Claire asked numbly. It solely for conversational purposes, to let Niki do all the talking.

The mother sighed and pulled up a chair next to Micah's bed. "It's so laid back. It's nothing like Vegas, you know? Everything was so fast and bright out there. But here I feel like we're stuck in neutral."

Claire made a noncommittal noise. She _wanted _to like Niki. She _wanted _to be supportive and to relate to what the other woman was saying. But all she felt was crumbled, like her body was still stuffed in an urn. Every word out of Niki's mouth went in one ear and out the other, just syllables that Claire couldn't care enough to hold onto.

Being alive again…having a second chance at life…stuff like that was miraculous business for the normal. For Claire though, it was hard to find something 'special' about coming back to life anymore. It was supposed to be warm and invited with open arms. A small spark of glee that grew bigger and bigger like a blush on a virgin's throat. Yet the fairy tales, the assumptions…they all forgot about what it felt to be ripped from a beautiful overworld, thrown back into the grim existence of Earth.

Claire suspected that Peter wouldn't understand. He seemed distant as well, but she already knew he never saw heaven. He'd been trapped in limbo, a field of locusts for the mournful. Really, he had no reason to be so full of angst, she fumed. He's _better off _here. _He _never got to taste fruit riper than any human pleasure. He never got to see eternal daylight. He never knew what it was like to have every fear and inhibition utterly washed away, leaving nothing but the purest happiness.

_That _was heaven. There weren't angels, there weren't clouds, or pearly gates, or Mother Teresa, or Philadelphia Cream Cheese. It was, as Claire could surmise, basically Earth with all the bad parts taken out. Not even particularly religious, really. She didn't meet God, or Jesus, or St. Peter. It wasn't very crowded and no one thought of death, or sickness, or evil. Every person she encountered absolutely glowed with joy, an easy-going jubilation that wasn't forced or shoved down her windpipe. Everyone was happy, because there was no reason _not _to be.

She could slightly remember thinking of Peter while wandering the jade fields. She could remember missing him, wondering whatever became of him…but she never felt _sad _about it. Heaven was like an orgasm mixed with a Beatles album and over time, it erased her love for him. Claire got so wrapped up in her own elation that she…she _forgot _Peter. She forgot to miss him, to fear for his well being. She simply let sleeping dogs lie, and when she was pulled down from the heavens, wrenched back into this horrid world…

Claire felt a single tear roll down her cheek as she held her legs even closer to her body. Oh _God. _Everything was so ruined. How was she supposed to love Peter again if she didn't even want to _be _here. She'd give anything to return to the carefree plains, back to an easy afterlife. This fate which had been bestowed upon her- to be given pleasure like that and have it severed away like a punch to the gut…Claire Bennet wouldn't wish that on her worst enemy.

"You okay, sweetie?"

Niki was staring at her, big blue eyes brimming with concern. Claire didn't even bother to mask her crying. She let out a sob and suddenly, Niki's mothering arms were around her, making her cry even harder. Niki reminded her too much of Sandra in moments like this, and the nostalgia nearly killed the indestructible girl.

Still, it felt good to let out all that pent up emotion. Claire had been on the brim of bawling ever since she opened her eyes for the first time that night. But she was forced to stay 'strong' and suck it up. To look at her feet and keep it inside, because after all Sylar and Niki had been through tonight, the last thing they needed to deal with was _her _problems.

Claire wished she could talk to Peter, like old times, but things were so different now. She couldn't even be certain if they'd ever change back to normal again.

xxx

"I'm hard-pressed to believe that a dude barely older than Claire is our father." Peter's sullen gaze was directed towards the floor-tiles. Sylar half-wondered if the plaster would suddenly crack under his brother's glare. "How do _you _believe it?"

"He's not really young," Sylar pointed-out. "He's _four-hundred_. He regenerates and it's stopped his aging."

Peter finally looked up, realization blooming. "Then do you think that'll happen to us too? Me and Claire, will we…will we live forever?"

Sylar shifted uneasily on the bench, his leg accidentally brushing against Peter's. "I think it's already started. Adam and the nurses wouldn't believe you were my twin. He was convinced you were my little brother."

Peter turned his face towards Sylar and smirked a little. He brought up a hand and touched the light wisps of fair hair forming around his brother's temples.

"Nah," he denied. "That's just cause you're going grey, old-timer."

They chuckled collectively before falling silent. Sylar could hear a heart monitor beeping in the distance. When he listened closer, he could even make out the crashing of the bay's waves. The amnesiac was almost content to just sit there and listen to the hypnotic sound of water sliding up the sand as he sat by his brother, but a pair of distant moans made him avert his super-hearing. Apparently, a young couple found it fit to make love by the bay, and Sylar had accidentally gotten an earful of the climax.

He flinched, reddening, and readjusted himself to his current setting.

They were sitting out in the hall, minus Adam this time. After Sylar pulled Peter aside and basically described all that he knew about their family, the recently reincarnated twin definitely felt the need to sit down. His head was throbbing now, and all he really wanted to do was sleep.

"Gabriel-," Peter began, but Sylar cut him off, cringing.

"Peter," he responded wryly. "I like being called Gabriel about as much as _you _like being called Michael."

"…Oh_._"

Sylar smile was relaxed. "It's fine. You weren't here to know."

"Are you gonna remind me of that every time we talk?" Peter unexpectedly hissed. "'Do you remember- oh wait, sorry, you went off and got yourself killed while I was doing that. My bad!'"

An elephant had now entered the room, and Sylar could feel every inch of it. He cautiously reached out for Peter's shoulder, but the smaller man shimmied out of the way, now staring at the floor again in annoyance.

"No, I don't…" Sylar quietly countered, "I don't hold it against you. It's just been very difficult lately. You and Claire've got so much catching up to do."

"It looks like you got pretty caught up yourself," Peter rejoined, eyeing his pocket where Angela's engagement ring rested. "You _knew _that box was secret."

For once, Sylar snapped in return with nearly as much passion. "What is _wrong _with you?!" he cried. "You. Were. Dead_. _Turned to dust! And seeing as you never really opened up to me while you were still alive, I thought it might be interesting to actually _know _who my brother was." He scooted to be a bit farther away on the bench. "Sorry if that makes me such a terrible friend, but in all honesty, I doubt you'd show _me _any more privacy."

Peter watched his irate brother in stunned silence, before releasing a heavy breath and burying his face in his hands. A few awkward moments remained between them before Peter eventually spoke, his voice cracked.

"You promise me that you won't judge me on what you saw." His fierce gaze penetrated Sylar like a knife in the heart. "Cause you weren't there, and the context of it-,"

"Peter," Sylar softly murmured, finally comprehending why his Gemini was so full of dread. He stretched his arm out as far as it would go, closing the gap between them as he lightly held his brother's face.

"I don't judge you for _anything. _In fact, I think what happened with you and Claire was wholly justified."

He let his hand drop, pulling it back to his own lap. "Plus," he added frankly, "I haven't forgotten about all you've forgiven me for. I'd be an idiot not to excuse your past, when you've done as much for me." After a moment of letting Peter dwell on that, he at last turned their conversation back on track.

"Now. What is it that you wanted to ask?"

"Hmm?" Peter was plainly distracted, but Sylar pressed on. If there was one weakness that killed him other than desperation, it was curiosity.

"When you called me Gabriel. Weren't going to say something?"

"Oh," Peter acknowledged quietly, frown intensifying. "Yeah."

He stood up and Sylar fought not to wince, hearing several bones and tendons popping as Peter moved. The smaller man paced in front of his twin, a glare still carved deep into his face.

"What's different about me?" He finally stopped and turned to face Sylar, directly in front. Sylar himself rose, now towering over Peter with a lingering grimace of his own. "You see it?"

"Your temper seems shorter," Sylar admitted. Peter chuckled scathingly.

"Something more physical, brother." He stepped backwards into the light, florescent beams illuminating his frame. "Guess again."

"I don't know. Your scars are gone?" Sylar weakly surmised.

"That too," Peter fairly considered. "But what else?"

Sylar approached him gradually until they were a mere foot apart. The amnesiac's forehead hung jadedly over his tired eyes as he looked down upon his brother. Peter's gaze was persistent though. One might even call it a bit cracked, or mad.

"C'mon," he desperatly encouraged. "When you look at me, what do you see?"

Sylar's eyes gleamed with pity and self-depreciation. "I see the brother that I broke."

Finally, Peter's old personality, which had once been so full of empathy and unconditional love, began to peek through. "That's not your fault," he muttered. "None of this is. It was all just an accident. Nathan, after Kirby Plaza…he let his guilt eat away at him for years. Look where he ended up."

"Something tells me that_ my_ faults won't evoke the suffering of thousands," Sylar droned back. Peter nearly let out a laugh- it was a diminutive smile and an almost inaudible snicker, but that was a start.

"It'll make_ you _suffer though. And please, me and Claire are already messed up enough. We don't need you joining the club. You're supposed to be the _sane _one, remember?"

Sylar snorted. "This irony is killing me, I hope you know."

"Oh, it already knocked me out about four years ago. Right about the time that Mohinder told me I was supposed to team up with my serial-killing arch nemesis." Peter nodded enthusiastically and Sylar continued to smile. "Anyway, have you finally figured out what you're reallyseeing out of me?" Peter glanced ever so slightly to the left, then back at Sylar. "Or…what you _don't._"

Sylar's smile fell and he tilted his head, interested again. Next, he followed the line of sight that Peter subtly gestured to. Indeed, his brother was right. Because the point Peter had been trying to make was definitely laid out for his blind eyes in that moment.

On the wall was Sylar's silhouette, an exact copy of himself carved in black nothingness. Same height, same shape, same position. But when his eyes scanned the wall, trailing over to where _Peter's _shadow was supposed to be, all Sylar could see was a plain white wall.

"Your shadow…" he whispered. "It…"

"I dunno where he went," Peter answered the question that Sylar needn't speak aloud. He stepped backwards, masked by the darkness of the hallway once again. "All I know is that's he's _gone_."

xxx

Dawn treated San Francisco nicely. A thick morning fog masked the top half of the bridge, hanging over the basin of the city. Peter Petrelli had never seen a California sunrise, but he was too caught up in his own thoughts to be impressed.

The bench he laid on was rough, and the way the sun was coming up shined light right into his eyes. Peter grumbled a curse and adjusted his position, squinting, having long given up the fight for sleep.

He glimpsed Claire on the opposite bench across the hall, lost in the mist of her thoughts. Her focus stayed aimed at the wall, glazed and emotionless. Even still, she was beautiful in the orange morning light. It complimented her newly honey hair. Peter had almost forgotten what she looked like with blonde tresses, and the position she was currently in served as a pleasant reminder.

Something was missing though. Something in her face. Peter'd seen it before- the sad ghost that haunted her features. The first time he met her, she'd tried covering it up with a depressed little smile and a cheerleader's giggle.

Now she wasn't even trying.

Peter's face turned to the emergency room where his brother and the Sanders' resided. Sylar went off to bed hours ago, off to the warm embrace of the woman who loved him and the boy who was like his son. Peter's lips pursed miserably and he brought his knees closer to his chest. Everything he used to have- happiness, a lover, friends…they were all Sylar's now. And he had nothing because he _wanted _nothing.

That's just about what filled his veins from head to toe, too: absolute zilch.

The sun had moved a little further in the sky, basking Peter with even more natural light. He didn't lower his lids. Just stared right up at the yellow orb of light, pupils getting impossibly small in his irises of chocolate. When he was just about at blinding point, he averted his gaze, glumly feeling every cell heal back to perfection.

Peter let out a breath and glanced to the wall he was leaning against. There should have been a shadow climbing up the sheetrock, but all that remained was an nude slab of illuminated plaster. It was the undoubtable reason for the emptiness in his heart. Petey was more than just his dark reflection- it was his soul. And now that it was gone, Peter was completely lost. There was a physical cut between him and his emotions, one that no regeneration or Band-Aid could hope to heal.

But what about Claire? She still had a shadow, and he was certain her soul was intact, deep inside her. Yet she seemed just as continuously forlorn as him. Was it shock? A fruitless game?

Or a reason only she could comprehend?

He decided to watch Claire some more, and saw how her eyes finally had switched from looking out the wall, to looking out the skylight. Peter moistened his lips.

"Claire," he began quietly. "Do you love me?"

She looked his way for just a moment, then went back to peering breezily out the window. "Yeah, of course," she replied automatically.

Peter's mouth slashed disbelievingly and called her name again. "_Claire_."

The blonde looked at him again, frowning this time. And instead of turning back to the dawn, she continued to stare at him, perplexed and appearing slightly terrified.

"Are you _sure _you do?" he insisted, brown eyes burning into her retinas as the sun had done to him. Claire felt a sinking in her gut bigger than the Titanic. Because he had a point; after really considering it in those clock-ticks between them, and as she cried in Niki's arms, she realized he was _right._

"…No."

"You don't?"

"No," she repeated, barely above a whisper. Peter almost had to use his super-hearing to make it out.

He suddenly leaned back on the bench, adjusting his position to something more comfortable. The scraping noises were out of place in their hushed conversation, and Claire curled her limbs insecurely.

"Good thing," Peter announced, sounding somewhat fulfilled. "Cause I feel nothing for you either."

Claire scowled, now sitting upright, feet planted firmly onto the ground. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Peter's brows rose in acknowledgement, but his eyes stayed locked on the ceiling. "I wish," he answered grimly.

"So…" Claire's voice was unstable. "You don't feel…?"

"Nothing. Like I never even knew who you were."

"What about Sylar? And Niki?" she asked more pressingly. Then, she halfheartedly admitted, "I don't feel anything for them either. Do you?"

Peter hesitated, and almost sounded scared for the first time when he confessed, "Nope. Not even my own brother."

Claire opened her mouth, even when she wasn't exactly sure what to proclaim. What was there to say? Their bodies were here, but their hearts were lifeless- it was an unavoidable fact. And how were they supposed to fix something so abstract to the human and mutant population alike?

But whatever garbled 'there, there' nonsense that was about to come out of her throat was cut off by a nurse's hysterical scream. Peter sat up without delay, Claire along with him, and they searched for the source of the cry. It turned out to be a young woman in scrubs who was standing at the huge window, the one at the end of the hall. It was the same window which shed so much blinding light upon Peter, but all he could see from his current perspective was endless blue sky.

Yet when he stood up and approached the trembling nurse, Claire right behind, he at last viewed what the woman's hysteria was about.

"No way…" he muttered, pressing a hand against the glass. Claire's whispers were of the same ilk as she appeared to his left, gawking in alarm.

A stampede of footsteps was coming towards them as everyone on the fourth floor gained a buzz of curiosity too, ironically right on Christmas Eve morning. Within moments Peter felt Sylar near him, but whether it was superpowers, 'twin'-tuition, or simply his brother's looming frame, the man without a shadow couldn't be sure.

Niki and Micah were with the amnesiac, as well as the Miracle Doctor, who wedged his way forward. Peter spotted the expression on his father's face when Adam laid eyes on the bay, and he recognized it as one of the more calm reactions that surrounded them. Instead of gaping in awe, Adam's face crumpled into a harsh scowl.

"Oh my God…" Niki gasped, needing Sylar to help hold her up. "How did this…"

Peter and Claire glanced at once another, finding solace in each others eyes for the first time since their revival. Mostly it was because of that one shared thought which ran through both of their minds like a mantra.

_Here we go again._

For the San Francisco bay, a once marvelous and shining strip of water, had been turned entirely crimson with blood.

**END OF PART ONE**

xxx

**To be continued in Part Two: The Fulcrum of Days. **


	8. Homecoming

Chapter Eight

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing ) Ya'll are really wonderful and I hope you keep reading!

**Chapter Eight**

"**Homecoming"**

San Francisco was a city on fire.

Sylar could almost hear the metropolis scream from his driver's side seat in the Accord. Biblical conspiracies, wails of the apocalypse, mothers clinging to their children. With his super-hearing and his nasty conscience, nothing was escapable.

A warm caress brushed his arm, bringing some comfort back into his body. It was Niki, from the seat to his right, her slender hand reaching across the center console to cover his. She was smiling reassuringly, and something about the confidence in her eyes immediately made Sylar feel better.

They were stuck in an _unimaginable _traffic pile-up. The streets that lead to their apartment had been transformed into an absolute bloody parking lot. Every road in San Francisco, in fact, was coated with cars, curb to curb, with an impossibly small about of wiggle room.

No one, not Peter, Claire, Micah, Sylar, or Niki spoke a word. The radio filled their heavy silence with skull-grinding analysis, the entire media trying to propose _theories _for the event. What a shock, naturally.

But Sylar knew better. After seeing Orson Huxley turn into a pillar of smoke, he wasn't sure _what _the word 'impossible' meant anymore. It had become an obsolete collection of four syllables.

"_Citizens are baffled by the incident in California, which they now ominously refer to as 'The Bay of Blood'. Whether it actually is the precursor to an Armageddon, or simply a large deposit of red clay and other chemicals, they have yet to find. Still, evacuation is still recommended for the San Francisco area until experts-,"_

The radio clicked off without anyone touching it. Sylar glanced up at his rear-view mirror, spotting Peter in the backseat. His brother was expressionless (which seemed pretty normal nowadays), staring at the radio with the slightest glint of distaste in his piercing eyes.

Peter looked up and caught Sylar staring at him. The older brother deftly averted his eyes, but it was already too late. Peter leaned forward, over Claire and halfway over Micah, putting his hand on the back of Sylar's headrest.

"You got a cell phone?" he asked hoarsely. Sylar was a little surprised, but nevertheless pulled his phone out and handed it to Peter.

"Who are you calling?" the driver inquired lightly. He kept his watch on Peter as the moody twin rested back into the seat, flipping open the phone.

"Hiro," he answered shortly. "It looks like we're gonna be knee-deep in this whole 'saving the world' thing again, so I figure an extra pair of hands can't hurt."

"Oh." Sylar ran his palms distractedly over the leather of the steering wheel, feeling friction burn at his skin. "Good idea…"

While Peter chatted away the details with his long-lost friend, after spending a good five minutes trying to convince the samurai that _yes, it's really me, _Claire finally broke the ice with the others.

"What if it really is God?" Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat between Micah and Peter. "What if He doesn't like that Adam and you keep bringing people back, and He's punishing the city? I mean, it's unnatural what we've done. Once you're dead, you're supposed to stay dead."

"There is no _God _at work here," Sylar, the resident atheist, sharply retorted. "This was the work of a _person. _And I have a hunch who it was."

"You don't think Orson…?" Niki trailed off, looking back at Micah with wide-eyes. Her son shook his head.

"There's no way that dude can kill me without touching me, _and _turn water to blood. He'd have to be some anti-Biblical superfreak."

Sylar frowned, finally noticing something that he'd been too distracted to see before. "That makes me wonder, though. Micah…why did it kill _you _and not us? I got hit with it at point blank range, and I was fine. And it touched Niki too- you were in her arms. Why'd _we_ survive and you die?"

Niki moaned, placing her face tiredly in her hands. "Don't ask questions like that, hon," she gently chided. "It's too early."

Right as she let out a yawn, Peter bid farewell to Hiro and folded the phone shut. "Wait a minute," he interjected their already stalled conversation. "Who the hell is Orson?"

Sylar and Niki exchanged glances, then looked around at the cage of traffic choking their Accord. It was certainly a long story…but they had plenty of time.

xxx

Adam Monroe could barely make it through his front door. It was nearing noon and he was just now back at his penthouse. The only pinch of Godly relief was that a whole day without sleep showed no effects on him, all due to his regeneration. After testing it at some point, Adam figured that he could go nearly four days with no sleep before showing any signs of fatigue. It was good for his job, which somehow required 24-hour shifts.

Though the Misses didn't exactly think too highly of his long absences.

The blonde man moaned with relief as he stumbled inside, home at last. He closed the door behind him and leaned his back against it, slowly slumping down the wood until he was a heap on the floor. It wasn't so much a need for sleep that plagued his bones- it was traffic boredom.

"Aww," cooed a kittenlike voice from somewhere in front of him. "Long day, baby?"

"Have you lookedout the window?" he mumbled into the carpet. "I left at eight this morning. _Eight."_

His mistress's slender hand slid up the back of his shirt, rubbing soothingly over his skin. Little sparks of electricity danced across her fingertips, not nearly hot enough to burn, but enough to get her lover's attention. Once Adam was adjusted to the pain, he released a moan of pleasure and relaxed, letting the feeling of those tiny shocks scatter across his skin, loosening the muscles.

"Welcome home," Elle grinned, removing her hand to his discontent. Adam clutched his head and sat up, barely able to get his bearings straight before the girl was in his lap.

"What have you been doing all morning?" Adam asked, closing his eyes and resting his chin on the top of Elle's head. "More hairdryers in the bathwater?"

She slapped him playfully on the chest. "Silly. That got old ages ago. Besides…" Elle reached for his flank, digging her nails into the toned flesh of his hip. "I've been saving it all up for _you_."

"Special me, eh?" Monroe answered, half-sardonic, half-serious. Mustering up strength from the very base of his healing ability, he suddenly threw his arms underneath her, lifting up Elle as he stood. She purred and wrapped her wrists around his neck as he carried her to their bedroom as fast as his four-hundred-year old legs would take him.

He dropped her rather unceremoniously onto the mattress, but Elle didn't seem to mind. He knew she liked things rough, harsh, stimulating. Though, mostly he was the one on the receiving end of the whip. If there was one thing a psychotic electrosex kitten liked, it was an indestructible man with the libido of a teenager.

Adam climbed in next to her, casually beginning to unbutton his dress shirt. "You won't believe what happened to me last night."

Elle sat up and shooed his hands out of the way, deciding to undo his shirt with her own nimble fingers. "It better not involve you getting laid." She looked up at him possessively from under her long lashes, clearly referencing to that one little incident about a year ago. Adam had tried to _test _Elle's boundaries. It only took one occasion and three days to heal the burns she roasted him with to realize that yeah, Elle Bishop really didn't like being cheated on.

Adam chuckled slightly. "Actually, when you think about it…it kind of _does_."

When Elle shot him another murderous look, he was quick to explain, "No, no, not last night. I think it was before you were even born."

The woman's nose wrinkled. "Can you try _not _to remind me that you're that old? Kay, thanks."

Adam smirked. "Then I guess it won't help to tell you that I met my sons."

Bursts of electricity exploded from both of Elle's hands, singing the front of Adam's shirt. He looked down and sighed. _Not again…_

"_Sons?" _she parroted incredulously as he shed the ruined article of clothing. "You have _kids_ and you didn't tell me? You said you hated kids!"

"Elle, I didn't even know their names. It was _years _ago. I doubted _I _would ever meet them, let alone you." He reached out and cupped both sides of her face, approaching her with the gentle guardedness that one would use with an untamed lion. "And they're anything but children. They're both grown men, actually."

Elle's eyes shined a bit brighter. "Ooh…grown?" she mused, now interested. "Are they cute?"

Adam sighed, his face losing its glow. He collapsed onto the bed, any arousal that he had mustered up before suddenly draining out of him. "They look just like their mother," he throatily answered. "Emily."

The blonde woman cocked her head and glared down at him: shirtless, depressed Adam all curled up on the bed. His back was turned on her and she stuck out her bottom lip, feeling instantly insecure and rejected. Lovely. Just when they were starting to get somewhere, he had to go think about some old flame named _Emily_.

Elle seethed and leaned against the headboard. That was the problem with romancing a ten-times-married immortal. _So _many ex-girlfriends.

Licking her lips with newfound determination, she laid down behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist. Elle closed her eyes and pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades, letting his intoxicating scent wash over her. Adam was an old soul with too many questions, but damn if he wasn't attractive…

It was the first thing she noticed about him, even before she knew he was undying- that Adam was handsome. Of course, she's been twelve at the time, so it was probably just the puberty talking. But even to that very day, where she sat behind him, lightly massaging away all the tension in his muscles, Elle still harbored that schoolgirl crush. Maybe it was his accent, properly English in every way, which miraculously hadn't been erased by America in the past few decades. Maybe it was his boyishly round face and goofy expressions. Or maybe it was because even though there were four centuries between them, she'd caught up. He hadn't aged a day from the time she met him as a child to the time she first laid with him, and beyond. If anyone saw them on the street, they'd assume that Elle and Adam were around the exact same age.

Their connection had always been an odd one, based more on _need_ than love. It first escalated from acquaintanceship when she'd been eighteen years old, itching to rid herself of that pesky virginity. The ageless man had been trapped within the Company walls for nearly a quarter of a century at that point, over twenty years without the touch of a woman. This blonde girl had been his only companion in all that time, always dancing around their relationship because of her underage youth, her psychosis, what her _father _would think. Idiotic excuses looking back on it…

The day she turned legal, it only took one flash of some particularly risqué skin and he was on top of her. Never had a chance, and she never let him forget it either.

Bob Bishop ironically never found out. Not until the day he died. It was the last thing Adam told Elle's father before he pulled the trigger, killing King Midas with an instant blast of hellfire. The final words of a Company Man were a shout of disgusted horror.

They ran away together after that. Escaped the Company walls and meandered out into the cold world, still under the rule of Nathan Petrelli. Adam and Elle: two souls who couldn't be more different, but were somehow exactly alike. They'd been pushed around by the same people, suppressed for the same reasons, and ultimately, had the same sort of insane possessiveness and manipulation skills that ruined any chance of trust between them. However, Elle had the mind of a child. She needed someone to look after her, to protect her from other people like her father. And Adam, well…Adam took a certain amount of secret satisfaction in bedding the daughter of Bob, the same man who'd imprisoned him for thirty years.

Plus, when you've been alone for that long, any company is better than none.

"What are their names?" Elle asked, running her sparkling finger down his spine. "Your sons…"

Adam let out a low groan, his mind temporarily distracted by the delicious feel of electricity on his back. "Mmm…uh, Peter is one of them. Didn't real meet him. The other one is named Gabriel or Sylar or…I dunno, something or another. Nice boys, though. They seem close."

"What are you gonna do about 'em? You don't actually think they're gonna invite you to Christmas dinner, do you?"

The blonde man turned to face her, mouth curved up as he shrugged. "I don't know. It's too early to tell."

Elle's eyes fell downward, where she began delicately drawing patterns on his bare chest with her hands. She spoke in fragments, sentences interrupted by her focus on his torso. "Well…why don't you go visit them tonight…and see what they have to say…"

Adam was surprised by her rare show of sincerity. "Why…oh!" He had to pause, letting out a strained gasp when she slid a hand down the front of his pants and shocked the hell out of him. Once Adam felt everything down there successfully heal, he continued, panting. "Why…that?"

"What have you got to lose?" she whispered, now sinking her electric fingernails into his gut. Adam gritted his teeth and took the pain with a smile on his face, letting his forehead fall to rest against hers. After months of it, he was twistedly addicted.

"The world _could_ end tomorrow for all we know."

A smirk began to form on Adam's mouth as he slowly got the inside joke. "True."

But even while Elle's fingers jumped down and began deftly undoing his slacks, all Adam Monroe could think of was the indestructible girl, Claire.

xxx

The 'Casa de Sylar' was a still life painting. Every plate and birthday trinket sat intact, exactly the way they'd left things the night before. Peter and Claire studied the main room as if they were in a wax museum, slowly walking past the dining table still decorated for a feast. The broken fragments of their urns rested cracked and unmoving on a rug, the rug which preceded the fireplace.

"Welcome home," Sylar announced. His words sounded unsure and out-of-place in the silent abode. Niki and Micah followed him in before he closed the front door.

"It's about time you got here," said a lightly accented and disembodied voice. Peter and Claire both turned to look expectantly at Sylar, but he seemed as confused as they were. And just when recognition dawned on them, Hiro Nakamura emerged from the kitchen with a can of Diet Pepsi and a snack-bag of Doritos.

Sylar shot the samurai an annoyed look. "Doesn't anyone knock anymore? A nice, normal 'hello' maybe? These theatrics are driving me mad."

"And you wouldn't like him when he's mad," Peter smirked.

Any reply on Hiro's tongue was abandoned when he laid sight on his previously departed friends. His crescent moon eyes suddenly turned full. Even when he'd heard Peter's voice on the other side of his phone, it never really _sunk in _that Peter and Claire were alive again. But being ten feet in front of them, completely in the flesh, hearing Peter's voice along with _seeing _his lips move…

Hiro Nakamura was one of the most stoic and self-disciplined men on the planet, yet that didn't stop the trembles racking his body. He took tentative steps towards them, inch by bloody inch, until he could reach out and actually touch Peter with his bare hands.

"…Peter?" he gasped, and then turned to the blonde woman. "Claire?"

Peter smile was forced when he wrapped his arms around Hiro, giving his best friend a comforting embrace. Claire stood uncomfortably off to the side.

"You look different, General Chow," he commented, tugging at a piece of Hiro's new, shorter hair. The teleporter still wore contact lenses and donned a soul patch on his chin, but was now dressed in everyday American clothes. "What happened to the samurai outfit?"

"The era of superhero costumes is over," Hiro shrugged. "Plus, I like jeans." He peered towards Claire and gave her a little bow of respect. "It's nice to have you back too, cheerleader."

Claire smiled shyly. "Not a cheerleader anymore, Hiro."

The ninja took one of her hands in both of his, then pressed a chaste kiss against her forehead. "You'll always be Peter's cheerleader to me," he beamed. "That and much more."

Normally, when people referred to her as "the cheerleader", AKA "a mission", Claire felt irritated. She longed to forget about her days as an object, just another step in saving the world. But there was an affectionate lilt in the way Hiro placed such a name on her. He didn't merely see her as something that needed to be saved as, admittedly, Peter once had. It was merely for nostalgic purposes, a single thread of memory tying them to their lives before these powers had bloomed.

Plus, there was something about round-faced Nakamura that always cheered Claire up, no matter what circumstance she was in. For a warrior, he seemed so _innocent _and sweet_. _Then, like a bad taste in her mouth, the story that Peter told her on their road trip to Las Vegas came back to haunt her. The story of how Hiro's best friend and lifelong companion Ando had died years ago at the hands of teleportation poisoning.

"_It can kill," _Peter had tersely quipped to her as they leafed through spare clothes at a thrift store_. "I've seen it before. Hiro's best friend and sidekick Ando…they used to travel everywhere together. A couple years ago, Ando started getting sick. We didn't realize why until it was too late." _

"_What about us? And Hiro?"_

"_The regeneration can protect us, and Hiro's body is made for teleportation. But anyone else….it wears on them after a while. Especially Sylar." _

It was for the same reason, this mysterious deterioration of cells via teleportation, that Sylar could not travel with Peter or Hiro. Of course, the amnesiac suffered far more than any average human or mutant would from the transportation. His DNA was so shredded at the ends from his brain-snatching days, having warped his genetic code to death, that he had to lay down in bed for a while even after the smallest time-jump.

Which, considering that his DNA was so tattered….it might have been the reason he was going grey so early as well.

"Look at these urns," Sylar observed, crouching by the mantelpiece. "They fell over without being touched."

"We slammed the door kind of hard on the way out," Niki offered weakly. "Maybe the force from that knocked them over."

"Maybe it was magic," Micah wryly said.

Peter raised an imaginary glass towards the boy. "The kid's right, Sylar. Come on, does it really _matter_? We're alive. Ta-da."

Sylar looked towards him in irate weariness. His brother's soul may have been left behind in the underworld, but his sarcastic tongue was definitely alive and kicking ass, as usual.

"It is important," the amnesiac said, "Because I feel awful about this whole thing. I think _I _might have accidentally brought you two back, and _wrong _at that. If it's my fault that you're both so dispassionate now, I want to be the one to fix it." 

"Maybe it'll work out on its own," Claire assured him hesitantly with a glance at Peter. "How about we call a rain check on that issue, okay?"

"Here, here," Peter agreed, toasting her as well. "Just call it a miracle and be done with it for now. No problem lasts _forever, _right?"

"Tell that to an amputee," Sylar mumbled so only Niki could hear, and his girlfriend promptly gave him a light smack on the shoulder. He hissed at the surprising amount of pain it inflicted.

"Ouch. Mind your strength, dear."

Niki grimaced. "Sorry."

"It sounds like this Orson freak is getting to be a more immediate problem," Peter announced, continuing their conversation. "If he's going around knocking people off and turning rivers to blood, that's pretty serious."

"Where do we begin with Orson, though?" Hiro mused, having been phone-called yet _again _earlier that morning, and told everything about his comrades' current situation. "I suppose we could use Molly's ability to find him and then possibly lead an interrogation."

"We'll never be able to hold him hostage," Sylar shook his head. "He can turn to smoke and teleport away. It'd be a useless attempt."

Before anyone could throw out another idea, Peter abruptly yelped and crumpled to the floor, limbs racking with an unknown force. His hands clutched at his crown, back arching, guttural cries emerging from his throat.

As everyone exchanged horrified, not to mention _shocked_ glances, Claire kneeled beside him.

"Peter?" Claire squinted at him. "Peter, are you okay?"

She tentatively reached out to touch his shoulder. Claire craned her head to get a better look at his face, and gasped when she spotted two milky covers masking his normally brown eyes.

Peter stood up violently, not even registering her presence next to him. He haphazardly stumbled towards the bathroom, spending a few seconds in there before emerging with the pair of scissors he'd used to cut his hair. Claire's face was white with horror and confusion, because she knew what was happening- he was evoking Isaac's ability, right?- but it really didn't make sense with the scissors…

Until he approached a blank wall near the window and jabbed the clippers roughly into his wrist.

At least half of the group screamed the second it happened. Blood spurted from Peter's arm like a geyser, soaking his hair, face, and clothes. But before Claire could rush over to him and pry the instrument from his flesh, Peter was against the wall, smearing his red-stained hand all over the sheetrock.

The former cheerleader paused, outstretched hands frozen in the air. _Oh…_

"Dammit!" yelled Sylar unexpectedly, bending over and pressing a hand against the dining table. "It's happening to me too!"

His other hand was desperately clawing at his brow, shoulders convulsing as his eyes also went ivory.

"What the hell is happening to them?" Niki screeched to Claire. The blonde girl, who currently had both hands resting against Peter's shoulder blades, keeping him somewhat steady while he sketched onto the wall with his blood, looked frantically back at Miss Sanders.

"Painting the future," she hollered back. "I think Sylar killed this artist named Isaac at some point, and absorbed the ability from him. Peter can do it because Sylar can."

During her explanation, Sylar had crossed the room and was now burrowing through a drawer, filling his hands with markers of all different colors. Then, he sprinted over to Peter and joined his brother in 'painting' onto the formerly white plaster.

"The landlord's gonna kill you, Mom," Micah weakly remarked towards Niki. All she could do was timorously nod back, absolutely dumbfounded.

xxx

Peter Petrelli awoke in slow stages. He could hear voices at first, indistinct murmurs, both male and female. His nerve endings were next, and he eventually became aware of a sticky warmth on both his hands. The same tacky substance which coated his fingers also got on his lashes, pinning his lids shut. Peter groaned and strained all his facial muscles to open his eyes. After a little bit of struggle they finally pried open, washing his vision with white light.

He propped himself up on his elbows and absorbed his surroundings. The happenings on his own body were enough to freak him out- the aforementioned sticky substance on his hands was _blood. _Gallons of it soaked his arms, face, clothes, and the carpet around his fallen body.

As for the others, Claire and Hiro were on the couch, sitting far apart. Unsurprisingly, Hiro's face was masked with stoic contemplation while Claire's head stayed bowed, long flaxen locks curtaining her cheeks. Sylar was on the other side of the rug, cradled in Niki's arms, hands and skin covered in ink rather than blood. Peter immediately felt a curious sensation in his chest which he _wanted _to pass as worry, but he couldn't quite muster it up. Anyway, Sylar seemed unharmed. Just utterly in shock, like Peter.

It was Micah who was away from the crowd, standing before the mess that had been made. Peter slowly craned his head to lay eyes on the boy, and then followed Micah's sightline to what once had been a blank wall.

Peter's mouth opened in awe. Painted with a mix of spilt life and Sharpies, were seven comic book panels. There was a clear distinction between his art and Sylar's- Peter had slit his wrists to paint. Sylar merely raided the junk drawer.

Some panels were familiar. Some were completely unfathomable. Peter's gaze flitted back and forth as he rose from the floor, trying to make sense of all of this. The third panel in the set was Frisco's Bay of Blood, aptly painted in scarlet by Peter himself. The two before that were drawn by Sylar- one looked like the majestic ebony Sears Tower in Chicago, and the other looked like it took place in an adobe-covered Hispanic town by the beach.

"That's the Vatican." Peter, Catholic raised, pointed to the fourth panel, which showed a woman inside St. Peter's Basilica. His mouth screwed up in thought as he looked over the last three, which featured a pyramid, another skyscraper, and then a huge intricate palace in the snow. "That one's clearly in Egypt…I have no clue where the six panel's at…I think that last one's in Russia, maybe Prague…"

Sylar was on his feet too, approaching Peter from behind. His arms were crossed over his chest. "Number one shows the Sears Tower Raids. There's that fake truck at the base, see?"

He gestured towards a small "mail" truck parked at the base of the tower. Peter frowned and glanced over at his brother.

"This already happened? When?"

"June seventeenth, this year," Sylar replied without hesitation. "This cult of twelve thieves, mostly American businessmen ironically, snuck into the tower. They killed anyone who got in their way, but were luckily caught before they got away with anything. It wasn't the next 'September Eleventh' by any means but it did linger in the news for a while. A good couple dozen were murdered."

"What about the second one? Whadaya think; is that Mexico?"

Sylar cocked his head, recalling a conversation he'd had with Orson. "You know…I think that's Havana, Cuba actually. Orson told me they're having a famine over there. And see, all the crops are wilted. There's locusts. That must be what it's talking about."

Peter nodded, moving along to the next one. "Okay, so the next one's obviously today. Unless there was some other bay of blood that we missed?"

Sylar chuckled, shaking his head. "No. This would be the first time."

"You said the fourth painting is the Vatican, Peter?" Niki asked, joining them at the wall.

"Definitely."

Sylar abruptly reached out, touching Niki anxiously on the arm. "And that's Leelee Lang!"

Everyone in the room looked at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. "She's _who _now, baby?" Niki blinked.

Sylar ran a finger down the Vatican painting until it landed right on Leelee's lithe frame. She was standing in front of a broken glass window, hands reaching towards the sky like claws. Her body was decked out in its usual level of abstractness. Through the broken spots in the glass, the motley crew could see a smoky black sky forming above St. Peter's square, with fiery hail raining from the heavens.

"Orson's girlfriend," Sylar explained, now running his fingers through his crew cut. "And she's…she's _crazy _but I don't know why she would be…"

"Let's try the next one," Claire hurriedly suggested, exchanging glances with Niki and Peter.

Micah cocked his head at the Egyptian painting. "Cairo, right? But who's that dude and what's with that big thing in the middle of the sky?"

Indeed, his questions had merit. The foreground was filled with a smirking man with sunglasses, though the color of his hair could not be determined. This painting had been done by Peter, so everything was etched with crimson. In the background was a huge unmistakable pyramid rising from a slope of sand, and among the clouds was a huge and slightly circular object. There was a subtle wisp of dirt, perhaps, trailing behind it.

"Um…a meteor?" Claire looked at all of them sheepishly. "Well, what else could it be?"

"We've got locusts, rivers of blood, burning hail, and now a meteor shower?" Peter dryly summed up. "What's next? Forty days of rain?"

Sylar shot him an exasperated glare before continuing on to the next painting. "After Cairo is Asia. That's clear by the architecture. And that man there, that silhouette in the foreground- that's gotta be Orson."

"Lucky us. 'Asia' is the biggest continent in the world," Micah retorted. "We're gonna need something more specific."

"Shanghai sort of looks like that," Peter shrugged.

"Or Tokyo," said Claire.

"What about Taipei?" Sylar hopelessly offered.

"It's Osaka," Hiro suddenly spoke up, his tone holding conviction. The samurai stepped closer to the wall, peering at the painting. "This looks like the Nishi ward."

"How the hell can you even make that out?" Peter gaped. "Sylar's not exactly Da Vinci over here."

"At least my paintings aren't all colored _red_," Sylar irritably quipped back. "Did it ever occur to you that scribbling in blood might not be so smart?"

"Boys," motherly Niki tiredly chided them. Peter had barely been re-alive a day and the brothers were already back to their affectionate banter.

She turned to their Japanese comrade. "You're sure this is Osaka, Hiro?"

"Pretty positive," Hiro nodded. "It's one of the more ordinary-looking cities in that peninsula. Tokyo and Shanghai are both _crazy_ with architecture. And Taipei 101 is really remarkable too, and that's not in here either. I'm sure it's Osaka." He paused. "Well, nearly sure. I suppose it _could _be Hong Kong…"

"What's Orson doing though?" Claire inquired, peering at the mural. "He looks like he's heading towards that tall building over there."

"Yeah, and where's the volcano eruption?" Peter added in agreement. After getting several odd stares from the others, he hastily explained. "Well, all the other ones show disasters, don't they? But there's nothing going on in this one. It's just Orson walking down the street."

"It's a prelude to a mass execution," Sylar surmised, his frown deepening. "Orson has some sort of ability that allows him to kill people just by being near them. Only certain people, but he can hit a lot of them at once. If he stood out in the middle of that crowded street and basically _exploded, _I bet dozens of them would drop dead on the spot."

"He's heading towards the Chinese consulate though. Politicians are sometimes there," Hiro declared. "Maybe he's planning on assassinating someone in the government. Could be considered a disaster."

"Who _are _these people?" Peter cried. "Orson, Leelee, that guy with the sunglasses…what do they want with destroying the world? And _how _are they even doing this? I mean, think about it realistically. Me and Sylar are two of the most powerful people on this planet. But even if we _combined _our abilities, we couldn't bring an asteroid to Earth, or cause a mass famine, or turn a river to blood. Power like that is beyond the reach of any human being."

"The amount of power is irrelevant," Sylar stated gravely. "It's the _type _of power. You don't need to be a god to turn water into blood. Perhaps that is your _one _ability, and you merely use it on a grand scale."

"What about that last painting guys?" Micah insisted, pointing to the final panel. It depicted an unknown hand holding a sword in the foreground, with a battered palace in the background, all in the Siberian snow.

"St. Petersburg, Russia," Claire declared. "I recognize it from a movie. It looks like there's a battle going on there."

"That's horrible," muttered Niki. "How can anyone expect us to stop all this? It's so much bigger than us."

Hiro directed a somber look in her direction. "There must be some reason why we've been shown this. It cannot be impossible to fulfill if it's another part of our destiny."

"He's right," Claire surprised them all by saying. "We might not be able to stop it, but we've got to at least _try. _We can't just let this happen."

"We're assuming these are all in order then?" Peter looked back at all of his reluctant comrades. God, they were all so unready for this, but so eager all the same. "First stop, Vatican City?"

"I suppose we have no other choice," Sylar sighed, broad shoulders slumping in defeat. "First thing Christmas morning, then."

xxx

Evening brought a calmer air into Sylar and Niki's apartment. But even though its guests were hushed, peering out the window or quietly reading in the corner, seven grim murals scrawled onto the wall served as a looming reminder of what needed to be done.

Alas, it was Christmas Eve though, and Niki Sanders, superior ruler of the household, had demanded for all thoughts of the apocalypse to be willed away until the following day.

Hiro and Micah were just finishing up with cleaning up Peter's blood from…pretty much everywhere. The Sanders boy was rolling up the steam cleaner's cord, while Hiro headed towards the kitchen to wipe off his hands. Their labor had been the only real 'entertainment' around here for Claire, who sat curled up like a cat in a recliner. The rocking chair was masked by shadows in the corner of the room, and in it, Claire almost felt like she was a fly on the wall, watching everything around her without actually being present.

The light sound of the shower running was one of the few things noticeable in the room. While Hiro and Micah cleared blood from the carpet and walls, Peter cleaned blood off _himself._ After, of course, offering the shower to Sylar, who'd taken a good couple hours to scrub all the Sharpie ink off of his skin.

Claire's gaze scanned over the room once more, now landing on the Christmas tree in the opposite corner of the room. The end of the world had to come again at _this _time of the year, a time that was supposed to be merry and carefree. Through another perspective though, it made sense. If the world was to be swallowed by death and darkness, she supposed that a happy population was the best kind. If the Earth goes to hell, you'd want to be in it when you're not afraid to kiss your brother and love thy neighbor.

The lights from the tree were starting to make Claire's eyes water, and she lowered her head to wipe away the unshed tears. When her face rose again, Sylar was kneeling before her, a piece of paper in his grasp.

"Are you alright?" he asked, genuinely concerned. Claire waved a hand.

"Yeah, fine. My eyes are just itchy. It's nothing."

"Oh," Sylar answered, and she could tell he wasn't entirely convinced. At any rate, he changed the subject, holding the paper out towards her.

"I found this in my room and I think you deserve to have it." He took a deep breath before explaining, "Peter anticipated his death all along, and he left behind this goodbye letter. It was addressed to both of us, and the part you're holding in your hands was specifically directed towards you." He shrugged, not knowing much else to say. "I never read it, just so you know. You'll be the first one. I merely thought that with everything so off, and now that you're back to read it…well…"

"Thank you," Claire cut him off tenderly. "This is really nice, thanks."

"Read it in your own time," Sylar assured her warmly, giving her hand a friendly pat. "There's no rush."

He rose from his knees, towering over her for a moment before he silently padded away across the cream-colored carpet. Claire's eyes fell to the folded piece of notebook paper embraced by her digits. Through the paper, she could make out some indistinguishable words in Peter's loopy handwriting. Everything on this page had been poured out by _his _pen, _his _mind. His last thoughts of her before dying. Everything he'd wanted to say.

Everything he no longer felt.

Claire sharply drew in a gust of air before sliding the paper into her pocket. Sylar was right- there was no rush. She wasn't ready to know, not yet. Why read such a weighty declaration of love when her heart wasn't in the right place to appreciate it yet?

Sylar was about to sit down again next to Niki when the doorbell suddenly rang. He paused, posterior inches away from the couch cushion, before slowly rising to an upright position again. They hadn't expected anyone other than Santa Claus to be making a stop by the apartment tonight.

The wiry man walked over towards the front door, getting a glimpse of their visitor through the peephole. His expression went from neutral curiosity to surprised happiness when he recognized the man loitering around in the hall.

Sylar hastily swung open the door and was greeted by Adam Monroe, looking like exhausted hell.

"Cheerio, son," he announced dryly. "Mind if I come in?"

xxx

**To be continued…**


	9. Calm Before The Storm

Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

"**Calm Before The Storm"**

Though Sylar offered his weary father a seat, Adam declined, choosing to stand awkwardly close to the exit. The cheery 'Miracle Doctor' façade had clearly been washed away, leaving a labored and grumpy old-young-guy. Adam meant well, but there was no denying the lines which were not supposed to cross his ageless face.

Peter had emerged from the shower by now blood-free, wet hair slicked back off his forehead. Claire squirmed uncomfortably in her chair when she laid eyes on him, a spike of lust shooting from her skull to her ankles. Their love may have been missing, but that chemistry, that tension between them which had always been so _physical _had been burning brighter than ever lately.

"What's going on, Adam?" Peter asked of his father, rubbing his hair dry with a small towel.

The blonde man shrugged. "Off a nudge from my mistress, I decided to check up on you all." He smiled a little when he laid eyes on Micah. "I see our patient's made a full recovery."

"Yeah," Micah grumbled, gesturing to the steam cleaner he was currently folding up. "Enough to put me back to work."

Adam let out a small chuckle, but his laughter died when he saw the mess scrawled _behind _Micah. On the blank wall were seven obscure drawings, designed like comic book panels. It was hard to make out the exact details from his spot near the doorway, but some of them were unmistakingly painted in blood.

He'd know that dark maroon shade anywhere.

"Like the décor?" The question was wry, but it sounded from a soft-spoken and emotionless voice behind him. Adam turned towards the unknown woman, and his indestructible heart nearly stopped when he recognized her.

It was Claire Bennet rising from a recliner, the wonder woman, the unbreakable angel that he couldn't stop thinking about. Back at the hospital, he hadn't gotten a real good look at her face. After all, his interest in the girl wasn't piqued until Sylar said that she was _like him._ But now that Adam truly stared upon her, barely five feet away, he could see beauty there which he'd neglected to recognize before. Wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair_…_tanned skin…intelligent, suspicious eyes…

"I'm sorry I never properly introduced myself," Adam said quietly, his voice suddenly coming out much more velvety. He half-bowedtowards her to make up for their height difference, offering his hand.

"Adam Monroe. Delighted to meet you, miss."

"Peter's father, I know. I'm Claire," Claire answered with a terse nod, shaking his hand out of politeness. Her response made him cringe a bit, but he masked it quickly with a flash of pearly whites. Still, when Adam straightened up and turned back towards the others, his smile was considerably less excited than before. In fact, he appeared a little peaky.

Claire couldn't help but notice Peter's surly expression, in absence of seeing Adam's uncomfortable countenance. A frown had worked itself deep into the crevices of the empath's face, almost like he was wearing a stone mask. And that rigid stare was pointing directly towards Claire and Doctor Monroe.

"Takezo Kensei!?"

The group collectively frowned at the interjection, all except for Adam himself. His face paled, becoming even whiter than his spiky blonde hair.

Hiro Nakamura was standing in the divide between the kitchen and the living room. As of yet, he'd been scrubbing Peter's blood off his hands. And when he caught sight of the quippy Englishman…the man whom he'd befriended and then betrayed three hundred years ago in feudal Japan…

"_Carp?_" Adam retorted back, equally as shocked. "I knew you were a time-traveler Hiro, but this is still quite a surprise…"

Peter looked from one of them to the other, holding up a hand. "Wait. You two knoweach other?"

Hiro stepped over to Peter and the others, instantly alienating Adam from the group. "You remember my tales of Kensei?" insisted the samurai. Peter nodded vaguely. He wasn't an _expert _on Hiro's time in old Japan, but he remembered the basic gist: Hiro went to meet his childhood hero named Takezo Kensei and he turned out to be a mere British thief who…

…oh.

Sylar pointed towards Adam, quicker to get to the truth than Peter. "Hiro? Are you saying that _Adam _is Kensei?"

"Surprise," Adam said bluntly.

"What are you doing here?" Hiro inquired, uncharacteristically bitter and cold. "What do you have to do with any of my friends?"

"As chance has it, I _created _about half of your friends," Adam snapped back.

When Hiro's expression morphed into one of bewilderment instead of sourness, Peter rapidly explained that, "Me and Sylar…he's our father."

"Poetic, isn't it?" Adam added smugly. Hiro stared.

"Father," he bluntly parroted, immediately thinking of his own old man. Ironically, the same Kaito Nakamura who'd been half-responsible for locking up Adam Monroe in the first place, unbeknownst to Hiro.

Hiro took a violent step forward towards the regenerator, but his friends moved to make a barrier between him and Adam. When the samurai looked over at to the blonde man, Adam's expression was blank and unreadable. Not deviousness, not sneaky…but not sympathetic or happy either. Simply empty.

"Hiro?" Niki gently chided, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back from his rival. "What's with you?"

"He is a traitor," Hiro spat. "I don't know why he's here, but it can't be for anything good."

"I'm purely trying to make up for thirty-four years of absence," Adam insisted, exasperated. "Sue me for attempting civility."

"Plus. Adam saved my child's life," Niki replied, more stern now. "And he's here now to check up on Micah and his own sons. There's no reason not to trust him."

Hiro tried to brush past her, not unkindly so but still firmly, and he didn't get very far. A small push of Niki Sanders' palm was the equivalent to a harsh shove. Hiro took several steps backward from the momentum, arms pinwheeling, half-moon eyes glinting with disbelief and betrayal. Never to be shamed though, Hiro straightened his back and killed his emotion, politely grabbing his sword off the couch and heading out of the room. The silence was bone-crushing.

"Hiro…" Sylar called helplessly after his friend, but it was no use. The samurai's mind was made up, and he was not to be seen in Adam's presence.

"I'm sorry," the doctor genially apologized. "It really is my fault. I was young…stupid…_drunk _through most of the seventeenth century." Adam shook himself from the musing. "For the record, I consider everything that happened between me and the ol' carp to be total water under the bridge. Clearly, he hasn't seemed to let it go quite as well…"

"He hasn't had three-hundred years," Peter softly pointed out. Adam merely shrugged and clapped his hands together once, briskly walking over to the murals.

"So what do we have here?" he asked chipperly. "I know San Francisco is an art town, but this doesn't exactly strike me as our kind of _eclectic._"

Sylar and Peter exchanged glances, twin-tuition kicking in once again. After Hiro's outburst and the sheer little they knew about Adam in general, could they really trust him with their secrets and plans?

Then again, Adam had a power that none of them could compete with. Sure, Claire and Peter could heal, but Adam could use his blood to heal _all _of them. It would only be a matter of convincing the good doctor to do it for free.

Plus, he was Peter and Sylar's father. He claimed he wanted to be there for them. What better time to help out his sons than while they were trying to save the world? And if he couldn't keep up with their fast paced lives, then he could return to his booming business in Frisco, more than likely unscathed.

"Peter and I can paint the future," Sylar broke the silence. "And this is what we saw today."

Adam's eyes flitted back to the murals. Sylar could see the cogwheels churning in his father's mind, but those gears didn't go nearly as quick as Sylar's own mental work. Even Peter had to admit- though Sylar wasn't particularly book smart, he still had one of the sharpest, quickest minds in the area.

"Egypt, the Arctic, Chicago…" Adam's hand ran absently over his lips, brow furrowed in concentration. "What does this mean?"

Peter looked to Sylar again, as if asking permission. His brother nodded, and Peter answered with, "It's like a roadmap. We have to go to these places and stop bad things from happening. That's how this power usually works."

"As in…stopping plagues?"

Peter frowned a little. He hadn't yet thought of that word to describe these events, and it sort of disturbed him. "I guess you could call it that."

"And when exactly do you plan on going after said 'plagues'?"

"We start tomorrow," Claire mumbled. "Why do _you_ want to know?"

Niki and Micah owed Adam a life-debt, and the doctor was Sylar and Peter's father. Claire however, had no connection whatsoever to this man, and no _real _reason to trust him right off the bat.

"Oh," Adam answered her, tone becoming buttery once again in the face of the cheerleader. "I simply wondered if I could offer any assistance. It would be the least I could do for my two dear sons."

"I'm not sure that's gonna be possible, Adam," Peter said reluctantly. "Hiro doesn't lose control like that very often, and we _need him _for this trip. If there's a problem between you guys-"

"Consider it white-flagged," Adam smartly interrupted his son. "The carp'll come around. I hold no resentment, and he's a stubborn little fellow, but he won't _start _a fight. And if, worst-case scenario, we have to avoid each other, then I'm sure we can work that out."

The motley crew looked at one another, all chewing their lips with consideration.

"Now c'mon, chaps," Adam persisted. "Think about my blood. If anyone ever got hurt, than I could _heal _them instantly! Surely that must be enough of an incentive to bring me along."

"He's right," Sylar suddenly spoke. "Not just about people's injuries but…" He turned to his brother. "Peter, you know I can't take teleportation like you all can. And if we have to travel that much, I don't know if I can survive it. But if Adam were there to help me…"

Though Monroe wasn't familiar with the specifics on Sylar's condition, it sounded like enough of a reason as any to grin and play along. "See? Perfect. One life would already be saved." His eyes suddenly gave off a bit of a glow about them, and he took a step towards Peter, resting a hand firmly on his son's shoulder.

"And what if you were to _fail _in stopping these disasters, Peter, and innocent peoplewere harmed? I could help them too! So, what do you say now?"

"I…" Peter looked around at the others, searching their faces for the answers. Who was he to decide? Since when was he the leader? He'd barely been alive a day and they already expected him to make a decision like this?

"Can't you just use me for that, though?" Claire interjected. "I regenerate too. Just use my blood."

"Afraid it's not that easy," Adam shook his head. "My blood didn't have healing properties until decades after the power itself manifested. My ability had to _mature_. So unless you're a hundred-year old woman trapped in the body of a twenty-five year old girl…"

Claire crossed her arms over her chest, not accepting the comeback so easily.

"Then you should come," Peter finally stated, speaking reluctantly on the behalf of the group once again. He seemed sort of defeated, run out of options. "We need Sylar. We can't let him get weakened by the travel."

Adam beamed. "Brilliant. Now if you'll excuse me, for the night, I ought to be getting back home. The Misses likes to worry, and I'd like to have a few hours left with her before I go globe-trotting after a trail of apocalyptic red."

"Fair enough," Sylar agreed, already showing his father to the door. "We'll pick you up tomorrow morning then."

"And remember to eat a good breakfast," Peter sardonically called after Adam. It was the last thing the Miracle Doctor heard before chuckling and closing the front door behind himself.

xxx

"I don't approve of Monroe tagging along." Though Hiro's body was draped with normal clothing, his hand-crafted katana was still by his side at all times. In this particular moment, his calloused fingers ran over the helix symbol on the hilt, slanted eyes narrowing even more in thought. "He betrayed me in Japan, and he'll betray _you _now."

"What's there to betray though?" Peter replied decently. "It's not like he's got anything to gain from this other than a little adventure and a 'Good Job' sticker for his conscience. And that was _centuries _ago. People change, Hiro."

His best friend sunk back in the recliner, silently raging with disagreement. Of course, the samurai's face remained totally composed through his surliness. It always did. "It's not what he has to _gain _right now. It's what he's holding over you. You all need his miracle blood, even he'll admit it. Adam can choose at any point not to give it to you. He's manipulating you with his healing ability."

To be fair, Peter did take a moment to consider the Japanese man's theory. "Why would he want to do that, though? He doesn't have any more of a clue about what's going on than we do."

Hiro's hand tightened around the leather grip of his katana. "He might be after his old sword," he murmured. "He might just be after me." Hiro glanced back up at Peter. "I've told you before what happened between Kensei and I. I regret to admit that my actions towards him were sometimes…wrong."

Though he was attempting to stick up for his enigmatic father, Peter couldn't help but feel a twinge in his gut that agreed with Hiro's suspicions. At the hospital, Adam seemed perfectly average, genial. Yet those odd, smoldering gazes he kept directing towards Claire were anything but appropriate…

Peter internally sighed. He knew it was just stupid passion. The whole, "I don't want her, but I don't want anyone else to have her either" syndrome that usually ended at age twenty. Sure, he didn't want anything to do with Claire at the moment, but he still _knew_ in his headthat she was his. Once everything worked out and their feelings were returned, they'd be together again. And Adam interfering with their already delicate situation wasn't something Peter felt up to dealing with.

Then again, he could just be overreacting. Who's to _really _say that Adam's glances meant anything more than skin deep admiration? Claire was a beautiful girl and Adam was a straight, red-blooded male. He could _look _if he wanted to, Peter supposed…

…as long as he didn't touch.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Peter emotionlessly said with a note of finality. "But at least we've got our shields up, in case he does try to backstab us, right? As long as we can be one step ahead, we're fine."

Hiro rose from the rocker, sword in hand. "I'll take your word for it this time," he declared soberly. "But don't doubt that both my eyes will be fully open at all times."

"Great," Peter smiled tightly, clapping his friend on the arm. "I'd bet my life on that."

Hiro showed a glimmer of a smile before stepping past Peter and heading towards the door. Micah was already over at his apartment, most likely doing a fifteen minute speed cleaning of the place so Hiro could crash there for the night. Sylar and Niki didn't have enough room in their apartment to house everyone, so Micah was talked into dishing in some of his space too.

Hiro slipped through the door without a goodbye- silent and unnoticed like a black snake. Right after he left, Peter joined the others in the center of the room. He sensed a sudden emptiness. No Micah, no Hiro, no Adam. Just Peter, Claire, Sylar, and Niki.

Sylar stood up and yawned, tiredly stretching his arms. "We've only got two beds," he reminded everyone. "Anyone want to sleep on the couch?"

All four of them looked over at the pair of lumpy hand-me-down loveseats that lined the family room, and all four promptly_ grimaced_ as well.

"Don't be ridiculous," Niki naively suggested. "Peter and Claire can both use the guest bedroom. It's a pretty big bed; you won't be cramped."

"Uh…" Peter began, glancing over at Claire, who was equally as pink.

"There can be an alternative," Sylar quickly stepped in. He shot a knowing look towards his brother, who gave him weak, grateful smile in return. "You can each have a bed if Niki and I-,"

"It's fine," Claire cut him off. She glimpsed Peter out of the corner of her eye again, and pointedly added, "Nothing I haven't seen before."

Peter shuffled his feet, considering it. "Yeah, and I guess we need to talk about some stuff anyway," he murmured, leading them into awkward territory. No one had any questions about the definition of "some stuff."

Sylar placed his hands consolingly on each Peter and Claire's shoulders. "As long as you're comfortable," he said, forcing a smile. "Try to get a good night's sleep, then. We'll see you in the morning."

"You too," Peter said back, head now starting to hang. "G'night."

His hand shyly found Claire's and she half-heartedly held it back. Yet as soon as her fingers were entwined with his, Peter's grip tightened, transforming from pseudo-loving to authoritive in an instant. A frown marred Claire's pretty features as Peter gently guided her to the guest bedroom. The way he clasped her hand was so serious and demanding. Not _mad, _but not exactly affectionate either.

She made sure to pull it free as soon as they entered the room.

xxx

Niki and Sylar watched their friends disappear down the hall, both owners of the apartment appearing rather content. Niki reached for Sylar's wrist, but noticed that he was, out of the blue, mysteriously absent from her side.

Right after Peter and Claire had left their sight, Sylar abandoned his spot by Niki and sat down on one of the loveseats. Rather than looking happy, he seemed, quite frankly, as if he was about to burst into tears.

Niki tilted her head at him, concerned. "Are you doing okay?" she asked, running her thumb gently over his cheek. Sylar glanced up at her forlornly.

"I can never be okay if Peter and Claire are upset. You _do _notice how off they are, right?"

Niki nodded solemnly, starting to understand as she sat down on the armrest beside him. She slipped an arm around his shoulders. "I did. Maybe putting them in the same room is good though. It might help remind them of what they had."

"I don't think it's going to be that easy," Sylar mumbled back, burying his face in his hands. "I just…I can't stop worrying about them."

Niki had to smile- not at the misfortune of her dear friends of course, but at the sheer level of tenderness emitting from Sylar in that very moment. She slid off the couch and kneeled down in front of her beloved, taking his hands in hers.

"You're starting to sound like the empath instead of Peter," she warmly observed.

Sylar smiled mournfully. "I guess he just rubbed off on me after a while."

There was a moment of comfortable silence between them before Niki tightened her grip on his hands. "Listen. I read their journals too, and I know as well as you do that Peter and Claire have been through a _lot_. I'm sure they'll overcome this too. You've just got to give them some time."

"For now, that's all we can do, I suppose. In the meantime," Sylar averted the subject, "there's been something else that's been in my thoughts today. Something to do with you, actually."

Niki sat back on her knees, trepid but interested. "Yeah?"

"What you said in the hospital…" he began, turning shy. "Were you just caught up in the moment or do you really…?"

Niki smirked, realizing what he was getting at. "Yes, I love you," she winked, evoking an embarrassed grin out of Sylar. "I wasn't saying that just to hear myself talk, Sy. I meant it, and I still do."

"Just making sure," Sylar smiled. "And I've loved you for a while now too. You're the only person I can be around who makes me feel normal. Even on the days when I don't want to be."

He leaned forward, capturing her lips in a sweet kiss that tasted subtly of ink. Sylar brought his large hands up to frame her jaw, slowly pulling her into a standing position.

He could feel Niki's arms entwining around his neck, her teeth scraping across his bottom lip, her warm tongue exploring the cavern of his mouth. It was the most intense kiss of his life, and by far the most smoldering contact _they'd _ever shared.

Niki's knee bent and her leg slid up along Sylar's, resting there idly until he took it by the ankle and held it to his hip. She groaned against him and pressed her weight forward, Sylar's body the only thing keeping her upright in such an unbalanced position.

He briefly wrapped his free arm around her waist and lifted her up, before sitting back down onto the couch. She was straddling him now, deft fingers toying with the bottom hem of his 'The Who' t-shirt. Sylar didn't realize what she was doing until he was half-topless, the shirt sliding effortlessly over his chest, arms, and head.

Things were going too quickly, too quickly for Sylar to absorb them all. Was this really about to go as far as he assumed it would, with his brother and good friend right down the hall?

"Shh, shh," Sylar murmured as Niki's hands trailed over his biceps and bare torso. "Slow down."

The woman's ministrations immediately relaxed at his words. What had been fierce touching and rough kissing turned into loving caresses and tender brushes of her lips. Sylar smiled against her mouth and sat back against the couch, letting his hand absently trail higher and higher up her thigh.

He'd figured out the mechanics of her dress by now, and was gently tugging it up from the middle. However, Niki climbed out of his reach before he could strip her, a crafty but shy expression lacing her features. She lifted up a shoulder in a shrug as she stood before him, and one thin strap fell over her collarbone, skewing the dress sideways. She shimmied the other shoulder and now there was nothing physical holding the outfit up. Only a few drops of sweat across her skin which made the material cling to her body, barely concealing her petite breasts.

Sylar rose from the couch in marvel and took three steps, reaching out to cover her arms with his hands where the straps had fallen. With shaky fingers, he tugged the sleeves further, pulling the dress down her body until gravity did the rest of the work.

Niki nimbly tip-toed out of the pile of cotton which lay pooled at her feet. Her gaze then switched back to Sylar, who was staring at her as if she'd just descended from the clouds. Niki blushed, now wearing nothing but a pair of hipster panties and reddened cheeks.

Sylar pressed his forehead against hers, hands running up and down her arms. They soon ventured to her spine, then her breasts, steadily becoming more adventurous as they explored every crevice of her body. Niki leaned into him, bare skin against bare skin, resting her face in the curve of his shoulder as he touched her naked flesh for the first time. She was a woman with many lovers in the past, but none of them had shown this amount of kindness, timidness, care…

The rest of their clothes were shed at a snails pace, the tick of the foyer's grandfather clock meaning nothing in the pace of their love. Sylar lifted her up again effortlessly and she let out a merry giggle, a barely-there sound of loveliness like the high note of a flute.

She wrapped her legs around him, every nook and cranny of her body fitting him precisely, and he walked them over to the Christmas tree. Carefully, Sylar knelt to the floor, laying Niki beneath the twinkling lights before he crouched over her.

The tree skirt was soft against the widow's back, but not nearly as gentle as Sylar's gaze, penetrating her from above. He smiled bashfully before sweeping his lips reverently through her ribs, between pink-tipped breasts, and over a flat stomach. Niki sighed and buried a hand into his silken brown hair, running her fingers from the top of his skull to the base of his neck.

Sylar shivered at her touch and worked his way back up her bare torso, starting by pressing a chaste kiss under her navel. When they were parallel once again, he tucked a lock of stray flaxen hair behind her ear. To his surprise, Niki tilted her head and he was suddenly holding her face in his palm.

They had such a contrast against one another under the yellow Christmas lights. Sylar looked dark, broad-shouldered, his eyes so shaded they were almost black, while Niki was a pale porcelain doll curled beneath him. The amnesiac knew better, though. Niki merely _appeared _delicate. In reality, those small biceps that he was lightly pinning to the carpet…those muscles were far stronger than his could ever be.

He caressed the spot where her jaw met her neck and Niki mewed, arching up with a breathy sigh. Her stringy blonde tresses spiraled over her shoulders and the floor like the hair of a Medusa, writhing snakes framing an inhumanly beautiful face.

She opened her eyes dazedly, two full and trusting cerulean orbs that stabbed right into Sylar's core. He locked his gaze with Niki and didn't look away until he had pushed inside of her, physical, emotional, and mental energy overwhelming him with raw sensation.

Sylar's lids fell shut over his calmed eyes as he let out a small gasp of relief. So, this is what it felt like to utterly succumb to another person.

So, this is what it felt like to be in love.

xxx

The guest room was possibly plainer than the main quarters, with nothing but a dinky full-sized bed and an alarm clock on the window sill. Claire stood in the middle of it, feeling very much like an ant in a matchbox. It was so white and so _open _without any furniture. There was about as much comfort in here as a hospital wing.

Peter slithered into the room once again and closed the door. He'd stepped across the hall for just a moment to ravage Niki and Sylar's wardrobe for night clothes. There wasn't much for pajamas, but did manage to find a silk nightie for Claire and a t-shirt and sweatpants for himself.

He passed her the negligee and rounded the other side of the bed. Peter was already peeling off his borrowed band tee, no embarrassment whatsoever. Which was more of a result from his personality than from Claire's presence.

There was really no time for modesty, Claire knew, but she still turned her back on him as she began to undress, wearing a blush along with her skin.

She chose to leave on her undergarments as she rapidly pulled the nightgown over her head. It wasn't particularly revealing, but she still felt sort of naked draped in it. There was a small lace lining at the bottom that screamed too much sex appeal in a situation like this. But Niki Sanders _was_ a siren of allure, so Claire knew logically that Peter hadn't 'picked' this out for her. It was simply all he could find given the circumstances.

When Claire turned around, Peter was already re-dressed, Sylar's large clothes swallowing his lithe frame. She had to smirk a bit at his expense. She may have looked like a slut; he looked like a dork.

"Remember when we stayed at that motel on the way to Vegas?" Peter wryly broke the ice. "Kind of reminds me of that."

Claire snorted, pulling back the covers and sliding in-between the sheets. Despite her normally flatlined mood, she could still find a small clover of happiness in the warmth which came with the comfortable bed.

"This isn't so bad," Peter continued. "If we could do this when you _hated _me back then-,"

"I didn't hate you," Claire quietly corrected him, the mood suddenly turning from jovial to serious. She stopped in her motion of getting into the bed and simply looked at him, eyes glazed. "I _never _hated you."

"Even when I ran away?" Peter asked skeptically. He was joining her on the mattress now, eventually settling back onto the pillows. It was a touchy subject, the whole 'runaway' thing, but he was too apathetic at the moment to censor himself.

"I was _furious_," Claire admitted. "But I don't think I could ever truly hate you. We've been through too much."

Peter propped himself up on his elbows and Claire stared down at him. Her statement lingered between them, a statement more full of emotion than Claire's whole heart was at that moment in time. Her eyes stayed trained on Peter's and suddenly, a chemical reaction went off, bursts of butterflies and fireworks dancing among their insides.

Claire found herself leaning down, hand trailing up Peter's arm. For several seconds, she was the only one moving, nervously beginning to slow down the closer she got to him. But there's no way he couldn't feel it too…everything was suddenly like old times again, all that spark between them, all that attraction flaring like a wildfire and-

-and he was kissing her fervently now, though Claire couldn't remember anything between being halfway down, and being ardently devoured.

Her lips were on fire with taste. The last time she had kissed him had been in the core of Sophia Linderman's machine, a desperate and frantic gesture of farewell as she lay dying in his arms. And now, two worlds and eight months later, she felt the same buzz coursing through her veins as she did back then.

Maybe…maybe they were cured now? Maybe they were back to normal?

Claire breathlessly pulled away, fingertips still resting on his jaw line. Her lips still tingled with the phantom feel of their kiss, and her lungs still burned from lack of oxygen. But now that they were separated, now that they had no connection to each other's _beings, _all of Claire's excitement died. The kiss was amazing…

…but not because it was with Peter.

"Wow," Peter croaked, eyelids drooping lazily. "That's _one _thing that hasn't changed."

"Yeah. It was nice," said Claire. She hesitated, before bringing up the unavoidable. "But did you even register that it was _me?_ Did it even matter that it was me?"

Peter's eyes were wholly open now, full of sheepishness. "No," he admitted after a beat. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she sighed, letting her hand drop from his cheek. She relaxed against the headboard, exhausted and out of ideas. "I know it's not your fault."

Peter stared at her quizzically. "Wait. Are you starting to…?"

"No. Don't get your hopes up," Claire scoffed, cutting him off before he could even voice such a joyful possibility. "I mean, I don't hate you or anything, Peter. It's just like you're a stranger."

"Or your ex," Peter added, drawing a small snort from Claire.

"Yeah." She rolled over towards him, serious. "But you know what the worse part is? I wantto feel scared about it. I _want _to miss you because at least that would show that I care, even a little. But I don't. I don't feel a _thing._"

Her eyes were beginning to well with tears, but not a muscle on her face showed any sign that she was about to cry. She rolled her eyes self-depreciatingly. "I didn't even want you when I was _dead."_

"I did," Peter frowned. His eyes crinkled as he tried to conjure up the recollection, the memory from a dream. "I remember missing you…back then. And Sylar. It was all I could think about. I wondered where you guys were, if you were okay. Stuff like that."

"It's not like you had anything better to muse over," Claire miserably pointed out. "You were basically a glorified scarecrow in that 'Limbo' place."

She moved her face slightly, and the lighting revealed to Peter that she was actually crying now, unrestrained waterfalls of despair cascading over her skin. And for the first time since his rebirth, he felt compelled to offer _comfort. _

Peter reached out one hand, slowly and unsure, then brushed his fingers softly over her cheek to wipe away those pesky tears. The familiarity of the gesture, an echoed memory of the first time Peter ever really _touched _Claire, broke the young woman even more. Before Peter could control it, her back was hunched and her face was in her hands, sobs echoing off the bedroom walls.

The empath uncomfortably scooted closer to her, his well of sympathy run dry. That ember he'd felt moments before…a need to help Claire…that was gone now, replaced with shame and bafflement.

"We'll figure this one out," he feebly assured her, wrapping a trembling arm around her frame. Her face was in the crook of his neck now, staining his collar with wetness. "We'll fix it, I promise…"

He held her to his chest more like a mother than a lover, stroking her hair as her body racked with choked wails. Peter didn't turn off the lamp until long after she'd cried herself to sleep and soaked his shirt with tears in the process. He couldn't let himself. The sound of her sobs was like the sound of someone being shot. Something he'd regrettably take to the grave- and not just the next time around.

As Peter laid down against the pillows in the cold December darkness, the weight of Claire in his arms was oddly comforting. Regardless of their history, she was still a warm body. And_ that_ of all things was what let him finally slip into slumber, long after eight reindeer had passed over the roof.

xxx

The ground is cold, he notices. Cold and crunchy and even more chilling then the blowing hail that's slapping him on the face.

Peter's walking across a foreign terrain, and up and down hold a striking contrast to his bleary eyes. The pavement is slicked with ivory snow and the sky is a smoldering tempest of curling black clouds.

He smells burning, but the snow is too thick and everything is just so damn _cold _that he can't find the source. There's something raw and weighty in his hand, though. It's a sword, Hiro's sword, with the little golden helix nailed into the handle. Peter's hand seems larger somehow, and he feels like he's farther away from the ground, but such observations fail to linger in his consciousness. There's something on the horizon now, bleeding into his vision. Peter squints, and his paces transform into leaps, and soon he's sprinting across a field of Arctic ice.

It's a palace, he recognizes when the object on the horizon finally comes into focus. It's a huge, gold-leaved and frost-laced palace and it's _close. _The blizzard had narrowed his depth perception, but yeah, there it is, about three hundred feet away. Lo and behold, the origin of the fiery sky is there too. Smoke is rising in absolute pillars from the palace square, and the screams of battle- a loud indistinct roar- are coming towards Peter like a bullet train.

He runs some more and soon he's caught in the snowglobe of a mutant war, electricity and telekinesis and powers he's never even heard of before flying violently through the air. Peter ducks down behind the statue in the middle of the plaza, gripping the sword more tightly. He feels ready, prepared, like he somehow knew what to expect when moseying into this battlezone.

Footsteps crunch behind him and without even looking he swivels around, plunging Hiro's sword into his would-be attacker. The face of his victim is irrelevant and left unknown, because he's already on to his next prey, a woman who's running towards him in shrieks.

Peter lets out a cruel laugh as he cuts her down, adrenaline exploding inside of his chest. They come at him still, one by one, and he's hacking and slicing and the more the blood splatters onto his skin and stains the snow, the warmer he feels in this blizzard.

When the rush of the fresh kill subsides, Peter stabs his sword into the ground and sits down beside it, taking a deep breath to recuperate his tired body. Over a half dozen bodies lay scattered around him, maskless, armorless. He's an island in an ocean of scarlet, solitary and safe while the war continues all around him.

Peter moistens his lips for the thousandth time that evening and leans closer to the first man he had slaughtered, scavenging for money or valuables. Without looking at his face, Peter goes for the watch first, deftly undoing the leather band. It's a nice timepiece. German-made, black rimmed, almost antique…

That seems familiar somehow. In fact, it kind of looks like the same watch that he…

Peter draws in a sharp, icy breath that stings his lungs, and his eyesight lands on the face of the watch. Beneath the fogged surface rests twelve numbers and one word:

_Sylar. _

Peter yells and tosses the contraption away, where it lands noiselessly in the fluffy snow. He's crawling away from his brother's corpse in frantic terror, escaping the little island he's carved himself. But even ten feet is not far enough to avoid the dead stares of Claire, Sylar, Niki, Hiro…everyone he loves is sprawled lifeless and crimson at his feet, slain by his own hand.

Two thousand miles away and one week before, Peter Petrelli was yanked out of the nightmare with a jolt, hands clutching at his bedsheets. And with a weak moan he slumped back against the mattress, right next to a perfectly unharmed Claire, sobs overcoming his yet-to-be battered body.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	10. Christmas Morning

Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

"**Christmas Morning"**

After his dream, Peter didn't catch a single wink. His abrupt awakening near 3 AM had stirred Claire for a moment, before he quietly used the power of persuasion to lull her back into slumber. That's where they stayed for the rest of the night- Claire lightly snoring at his side, and Peter wide awake, boring holes into the ceiling with his intense eyes.

Racing the digital bedside clock had become somewhat of a game. He'd try for the thousandth time to go back to sleep, adjust his pillow a bit, find a comfortable spot. Distract himself from the grisly images still burned behind his retinas. Then, he'd glance over at the red digits, seeing how many more minutes had ticked by until Christmas morning granted him the mercy of day.

Lucky him, to be stuck waiting for daybreak only four days after the winter solstice. Just as Peter was about to start ripping the long hair from his scalp in agony, a spark of sunlight shot through the window blinds. He sat up in bed and peered at it with bloodshot brown eyes. The clock was nearing seven AM. That meant sunrise in the wintertime.

Dawn. Salvation. A new day rising. Blah blah blah. To him, its greatest worth was an excuse to get up.

Peter didn't have the strength to even smile. Though his mind wouldn't let him rest, his muscles felt as if they were made of Jell-O. Lying soundlessly around all night had placed a lead ball in his gut, which he felt immediately when he stood up. Moaning, Peter stumbled around the other side of the bed, past a still-sleeping Claire, and clumsily out the bedroom door.

Fortunately, he had his bearings straight enough to close the door without waking anyone. Next, Peter meandered around the hallway until he found the first bathroom, gratefully cranking on the sink's knobs to 'hot' and splashing lukewarm water onto his pallid face.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and hardly recognized the man staring back. In fact, he could hardly _see _the man staring back, with that curtain of black hair obscuring his view. Peter mumbled under his breath and flipped back his- as Hiro would call it- _anime hair_. Still didn't help much though. His eyes were just as grey and dead, his face was just as sallow, his cheekbones were just as gaunt. Utterly unrecognizable.

Peter took a swallow of metallic-tasting water from the tap to clear his groggy throat, and he headed out into the living room. A large tree looming in the corner of the room reminded him that, oh yeah, it's Christmas, but that somehow didn't cheer him up. Heroes never got to have holidays. The world didn't stop being screwed up just because it Santa was coming.

Peter's sightline scanned from the angel on top of the tree, over every ornament, and eventually to the base. And what he found there almost made him guffaw.

His brother, naked except for a pair of boxers, lay sprawled among a mountain of wrapped presents. Beside Sylar was Niki Sanders, equally as nude, covered from the breasts down with a pile of blankets.

Peter snorted. He had to give his twin credit for creativity, even if Sylar wasn't exactly Casanova.

The empath knelt down beside the sleeping couple, surveying the scene at a closer level. Sylar's lips were slightly parted, his face totally relaxed, and his arms stretched long and lean over his head. Peter surmised, bittersweetly, that last night was probably the best sleep Sylar'd had in months.

Never to turn down an opportunity to mess with his brother, Peter smirked, looking down at his fingernails. They were eerily longer than usual because of the rebirth, and something he'd neglected to groom as of yet. He'd have to grab a file or something once they got to Vatican City.

Peter leaned a little closer to his brother, fingertip poised right where Sylar's neck met his jaw. Peter scratched at the small patch of skin for a moment and Sylar stirred. Not to be discouraged, Peter continued, drawing a long line all the way down the column of his brother's throat.

This time, the sleeping twin had a more aggressive reaction, bringing up a hand to harshly smack his neck. Peter's fingers could feel the wind rushing by from the force, but he managed to save his hand in the nick of time.

Sylar rubbed his eyes, now awake, propping himself tiredly onto an elbow. "Mmrg…Nik…Niki?"

"Me, actually. Sorry to disappoint," Peter bluntly replied, evoking Sylar to lower his hand, looking at Peter from underneath heavy eyelids. "Interesting present Santa left you, there."

The amnesiac glanced over his shoulder at Niki, who slept peacefully despite the banter unfolding before her. Sylar turned back to Peter, unfazed. After all those years of having Peter bed damsels, Sylar really couldn't muster up any shame in this situation.

"Clearly." He then groaned, glancing out the window to see the sun barely on the horizon. "Why'd you have to wake me? It's barely dawn. I was sleeping."

"And I wasn't," the other brother grumbled back. "Besides, you know I missed out on the whole 'torturing the little brother' thing. I was always the one on the end of Nathan's pranks. Call it a juvenile psychological complex." With that, he shrugged.

"I'm not younger than you," Sylar pointed out, finally sliding out from under the Christmas tree. "We're the same age. _And _I'm taller." Almost for emphasis, he stood up at that moment; as if to _prove_ that he did in fact tower a good six inches over Peter. Then, with a small smirk, he added, "And just because you were dead for nine months doesn't mean I'm above hitting you in the head with a flying vase."

Peter didn't reply. He was too busy noticing his new competition in the 'most fit' category. When Peter had died, Sylar was thin and lanky like a flagpole, with long limbs that almost seemed to sag from his looming frame. Now though, every muscle was toned like a gladiator's, from his biceps to his abs.

Peter arched an eyebrow. "Working out much?"

Sylar grinned, an expression that seemed peculiar on his naturally devious features. "Do I look like I have anything better to do? Besides, I have a girlfriend now. That has suddenly made fitness important."

Peter could respect that particular sentiment, but _couldn't_ help but see some irony in this situation.

"You're still such an atheist," Peter retorted, throwing Sylar his jeans (which had previously been spread across the couch by who-knows-how means). "You slept with her under a _Christmas _tree? I'm surprised you haven't been struck by lightning."

"Like you're such a saint," Sylar griped back. He was clumsily attempting to be sarcastic _and _pull on his long-legged pants at the same time. "I'm sure you've had sex with _someone_ in just about every private and public place imaginable."

"Touché." Peter rolled his eyes. "It was the 2000's. Give me a break."

"Your promiscuity knows no bounds," Sylar shook his head, kneeling down to the Christmas tree. Gingerly, as if Niki was made of rice paper and prayers, he cradled his girlfriend in his arms and lifted her off the floor. She was so light, like she was full of feathers and stardust.

Sylar admired her features all the way to the bedroom, where he gently laid her down on the mattress. No need to have all the other members of their Justice League walking in on naked Niki under the tree. He liked to consider himself a gentleman, and was bound to protect the modesty of his lover.

When Sylar returned, pulling a shirt from the bedroom over his head, Peter had moved over to the atrium window. The bay was shining in Technicolor ruby under the sunrise, bathing the sides of some skyscrapers with a rosy hue.

"It's not very fair, you know," Peter remarked. "We're not even alive a day and the world's already gone to hell again. Shouldn't we be allowed like, a week-long therapy period or something?"

Sylar appeared to his left, and Peter could just barelysee both of them reflected in the window, side-by-side. They were unmistakingly related from appearance alone, but Peter never would have taken them for twins. Sylar, standing over six feet tall with features unlike anyone else on Earth, was so clownishly bizarre-looking while lithe, ordinary Peter could blend right in with a crowd.

They shared the same eyes though. The same piercing, handsome, russet eyes which, according to Adam Monroe, were inherited from their mother. Emily.

"On the bright side, we've got more help this time. Niki, Adam, Hiro…" Sylar reminded him. "Last time it was only us and Claire."

"Yeah, but I wish it was just the three of us again." Peter seemed a bit miffed. "There's too many people to take care of. The more of us there are, the higher the odds that someone's gonna get hurt."

"That's a worthy risk, Peter. I've got a feeling this whole situation is a lot bigger than anything the Lindermans could plan."

"Seven plagues," Peter murmured back, shaking his head. He scoffed in bitter disbelief. "I guess we're just getting too good at this job, brother. Now they've gotta get _God_ of all people to throw shit at us."

Sylar mildly appreciated the humor, but his lips remained pursed. "I don't believe in that anymore. What merciful God would let so much suffering happen in this world? It's all such a delusional fabrication."

"Okay, Scrooge," Peter smirked with a glance to the Christmas tree. "But believe me- a trip through the afterlife might change your mind. There _is _something out there that's bigger than us. I'm not sure if it's God, Vishnu, Allah or just 'the Force', but…it's kinda selfish to think any other way, right? Humans, even mutants, aren't responsible or smart enough to run this place without some sort of divine intervention."

Peter spotted a prompt pang of embarrassed guilt cross Sylar's features. Right about the same time an utterly random idea occurred to him.

"You, uh….you wanna go on a walk for a bit?" Peter asked, out of the blue. "Cause I've gotta go pick up Adam anyway, and I sort of want to get out of this house…"

"Fine." Sylar then studied Peter's attire of super-baggy gym clothes that made the smaller twin appear like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. "But I do insist you get dressed first. If you leave the house looking like that, I'll claim not to know you."

Peter punched his brother lightly in the shoulder. "What can I say? They're _your _clothes."

xxx

Thankfully, a warm front hung over the California atmosphere on that day, so the weather wasn't too bad outside. Definitely too cold for short-sleeves, but still nice enough to walk around in, to enjoy the sights.

"When did this whole thing with you and Niki _start, _anyway? She was in Vegas, you were in Boston, I dropped dead…now you live together on the other side of the country. How does that even happen?"

Sylar shrugged and held his jacket tighter, the winter chill biting him through the material. "It's not rocket science. She was there to comfort me. And after the laws were lifted and everything was safe again, we figured that we're all each other had. I'm friends with Mohinder and Hiro of course, but they both have their own lives. And Niki didn't have anyone other than her son, so…here we are."

"San Francisco," muttered Peter. "And the disasters still followed you right here."

His brother gave him a friendly nudge with an elbow. "Strictly speaking, it followed _you. _That bay was perfectly clean until you and Claire came back."

"Do you really think it's got something to do with us?" Peter whispered. He has stopped walking, too-big boots planted into the cracked sidewalk beneath them. "Maybe Claire was right about our return being so unnatural. Maybe we upset the balance of things. Messed with destiny."

"You and your _destiny. _We can move things with our minds, Peter," Sylar tiredly reassured him. "Paint the future, grow back bones, even fly_._ The word 'unnatural' has become obsolete these days."

It took the shorter twin a moment to mull over the other's declaration before he began walking again, flanking Sylar as they headed downhill towards the bay. The beach was now blocked off obviously, science and news vans lining up the perimeter of the river. Peter and Sylar could still seeit from this angle though, so high up on one of Frisco's tallest slopes.

"But now that you mention it, is everything alright with you and Claire? I'm sorry Niki made you share a room. Not to intrude, but things did seem rather awkward last night."

Peter glanced up once at his brother before bowing his head in misery. "Yeah. We're kind of 'off' now." He lamely added, "I guess it's sort of like what _normal _couples call 'taking a break.'"

Sylar's eyes suddenly narrowed. "Peter, she's not some girl. She's the love of your life. You don't take 'breaks' with someone like that." The gangly man now came across as a little sheepish. "I…I read your journals, okay? And after learning about all that you've been through with her, I know that you two are undividable. What possible obstacle could come between you?"

"It's not an obstaclethat's the problem," Peter insisted. "It's what's _not _there. Something went wrong when we came back, Sylar. We all know that. And yeah, it's not your fault, but it _is _still a problem. Claire and I…we don't love each other anymore. At _all. _It's like we've never even met. In fact, I kind of feel the same way about everyone! No offense, but if you or Claire, or anyone of our friends was to just drop dead _right now_, I probably wouldn't care at all." Peter looked at his hands, as if they could somehow tell him the meaning of life. "I _want _to care. I know I _should _care. But…I can't, somehow."

"What about Claire?" Sylar gravely asked. "Is she going through the same thing?"

Peter shrugged helplessly. "Search me. I think it's sort of the same idea, but for a different reason. Hers seems more emotional, when mine is physical 'cause of my shadow…" He shook his head in incredulity. "Just imagine what she must be dealing with, though. One second, you're happier than you've ever been, and the next, you're ripped back to this hellhole. That's gotta be messing her up."

"I'm sure she just needs time. If it's emotional, then she can eventually heal," Sylar said optimistically. He hesitated before continuing. "I'm more worried about _you, _Peter. How are we supposed to get your shadow back?"

"…I dunno. No idea."

Sylar's gaze lingered on his brother's profile- the harsh, ridged lines that didn't used to trace Peter's features. The amnesiac always recalled Peter with high brows, warm eyes and a mischievous smirk. Now, all joyfulness, all playfulness, all the things that made Sylar put up with Peter's stubborn days were erased, just leaving a weary and contemplative young man who was even more nastily sardonic than usual. Sylar knew he should let his twin adjust; let Peter come out of his shell slowly. But this new model was really starting to bother him.

He's give anything to have the old Peter back. And while that didn't seem possible at the moment, at least Sylar could try to wring some sort of nostalgia out of his fallen kin.

There was a general store on their side of the street, which Sylar neutrally instructed Peter to wait outside of. The empath nodded blankly and turned his back on Sylar, now standing lonely and stripped of barriers. Sylar stared at him forlornly, just a flash more than usual, before slipping into the shop.

A cowbell rang when Sylar pushed through the glass door, and he was immediately assaulted by the smell of cigarettes, Fritos, and Clorox. Wrinkling his nose, Sylar briskly headed towards the mile long candy aisle, finding what he was looking for.

After throwing down a few dollars and absently telling the cashier to keep the change, Sylar rejoined Peter outside the store. If asked about it with his life on the line, Sylar would have sworn that Peter hadn't moved a single inch the entire time.

"Merry Christmas," Sylar said mildly, holding out a small brown paper bag towards his brother.

"You don't celebrate Christmas," Peter candidly pointed out, staring vacantly at the bag.

"But you do." Sylar thrust the sack into Peter's hand, not taking 'no' for an answer. "Take it. Enjoy."

Peter cocked an eyebrow and glanced down at the little grocery bag. Whatever was in it didn't have much weight. Still, Peter's curiosity was aroused.

"Do I get a drum roll?" he snorted good-naturedly as they began walking again. When Sylar merely chuckled in reply, Peter broke the suspense, carefully peeking inside of the bag. What greeted him there was far more cheering than he suspected.

"PEZ," he mumbled, reaching in and holding up a Batman dispenser. "You got me PEZ."

"All lemon flavored." Sylar winked.

Peter couldn't help the smile spreading across his face, despite the gravity of the day and the absence of feeling within his core. This sense of reminiscence and familiarity and love…it was too strong for him not to start beaming like an idiot. "You know me too well."

"Perhaps," agreed Sylar carefreely. "I know you'd do the same for me. One day, in another time, another slipstream."

The watchmaker's eyes were glued to the horizon, but his brother's gaze was locked on _him. _Nine months had molded Sylar from a timid kid into a wise man. Peter had already noticed the physical differences- the flecks of grey hair, the strong muscles, and the firmer posture. Sylar had tried to pass off the 'I have a girlfriend' card to explain away his maturity, but Peter knew better. His brother had been thrust into a world of normalcy after a mini-lifetime of saving humanity. That would harden even the most naïve of spirits, on top of the fact that Sylar lost half of the people he loved in one drastic event.

"Thanks." Peter was staring at the cracks along the sidewalk as they reached the final stop on their mosey to the bay. Days before, they could have walked all the way across the beach, out to the water. Now though, the brothers were forced to stop at the battery, for police barriers criss-crossed the whole area.

"It's nothing."

"No, I mean it," Peter insisted softly. "Thanks for _everything._"

Sylar didn't argue. He had no reason to. Getting a mere facial expression out of brother was hard enough these days, so a reaction like that was worth its weight in gold.

The stood in comfortable silence for a few minutes, simply watching the scarlet water wash up the shore, and then back down again with the morning tide. The waves weren't strong- hardly even noticeable really, but they were still present. Present and leaving a red shadow on the dirt with every sweep in and sweep out of the moon's pull.

Peter checked his watch, one of Niki's girly silvery things that he was admittedly embarrassed to be seen with, but he felt bare without something on his wrist. The minute hand speared the 'seven' while the hour was just approaching the 'twelve.'

"It's seven. The Today Show's on," he commented. "I think I should go ahead off to Adam's, then."

Sylar nodded. "Can you find him alright? You said your powers…"

"Don't worry," Peter said nonchalantly. "I'll be fine. I just think I need to work at it a little harder."

"Don't hurt yourself," the amnesiac warned. It was mostly in jest, but there was a note of soberness in his tone. "I'll meet back with you at my apartment."

"Great," Peter replied, clapping his brother on the shoulder as he turned away from the river. "See you in thirty."

xxx

After a particularly scrambled mental journey through the streets of San Francisco (via Molly's power), Peter eventually ended up at Adam Monroe's apartment. Not shockingly, his rich semi-con of a father was on the top floor penthouse in one of Frisco's finer districts. Peter had too much of a headache at the moment for such petty appreciation, though.

He knocked on the door, rubbing his forehead in pain. These past few days had wreaked havoc on his abilities. Even the simplest healing, teleportation, or mental GPS search drained him faster than a puncture in a balloon. It was the empathy, he expected. If he couldn't feel much of _anything, _how was he supposed to connect to people and use their abilities?

Peter could hear a couple muffled voices, one cheerful male and one high-pitched female, conversing lightly before the door swung open. A pixie of a blonde girl stood in the wooden frame, still dressed in a thin nightie, her blue eyes sparkling with interest at the sight of Peter.

A tingling immediately began in Peter's fingertips and worked its way up his arm. After being around so many mutants, he could recognize the sensation by now. It was the exact feeling he received whenever he was absorbing someone's ability, instantly informing him that this woman was a metahuman. However, the little sparks dancing in his nerves were far stronger than normal. Perhaps his exhaustion just made him over-sensitive today. Either that or the woman standing before him had an unusual amount of power.

"Oooh. Who might you be?" she purred, scanning him up and down. Peter wasn't in the mood for games.

"Peter Petrelli," he hoarsely said. "Is Adam up?"

The girl smiled in a nasty way that sneered, "_Yeah. In more ways than one." _Yet she held her tongue and solely shrugged, keeping the actual response unsaid. "Yup. He's around. Wanna come in, tiger?"

Peter nodded and she moved over a little to let him in. Just…a _little._ It wasn't nearly enough for a man like Peter to fit through, and he was forced to rub uncomfortably against the woman's front, her leer mocking the entire time him from below.

To his immense relief, a six-foot-two Neil Patrick Harris look-alike emerged from another room, dressed in nothing but wrinkled pajama pants.

"Peter," said Adam charmingly. "Oh, I see you've met Elle. Light of my life, in more ways than one."

Peter caught a glimpse of the handsy young woman, who was currently beaming at Adam. "Er…yeah. She's…nice."

Thankfully, Monroe changed the subject. "You're here earlier than I expected."

"I guessed that," Peter slowly answered, eyeing Adam's state of dress. "How fast can you get ready?"

"Five minutes," Adam assured his son. "Any more and you can leave without me. Just wait here, will you? Elle can keep you company."

Peter nodded and Adam briskly headed back into his bedroom, closing the door behind him so he could change in privacy. Which left Peter utterly alone…

…with _Elle_?

"You're his son, aren't you?" Elle grinned conversationally, leaning back against a corner desk. "Where's your brother?"

"Home," Peter tersely said.

"That's too bad," Elle pouted. "I would have _loved _to meet him too. What's his name again?"

Another clipped reply. "Sylar."

"Oooh, that's exotic. Tall, dark, and handsome too?"

The more Elle talked, the more uncomfortable Peter felt. Especially at that particular question. How was he supposed to know? Though he was relatively sure that Sylar was in fact good-looking, how could he be expected to gauge his own brother's sex appeal?

"I dunno…" He squirmed. "Sure?"

Elle tutted. "So bad he's not here," she said again. "That's such a rare name, you know?" Then, her eyes glinted with a wickedness that scared Peter more than falling thirty stories, getting his head sawed off, _or _causing the destruction of mankind.

"Hmph. Kind of reminds me…there was this murderer named Sylar a few years ago. My daddy was trying to catch him."

Petrelli was sure that his blood had gone cold. "Yeah…uh," he stammered. "Sylar gets that sometimes. It's a total coincidence."

Before he could dodge into an escape route, Elle was against his chest within moments, hands crawling up his torso like spiders with minds of their own.

"Adam says you both have really _strong _abilities though," Elle pointed out, taking Peter's wrist and running her scarlet nails over his barcode tattoo in mesmerizing patterns. Peter peered discreetly at her own arms and saw no marking, but he _knew _she had power too. He could feel himself absorbing it.

"You…and your brother. Just like that serial killer did."

Peter, who was quite frankly revolted at this woman's behavior, nimbly slipped away from her reach as fast as metahumanly possible.

"Uh…I really think you've got the wrong guy. Sylar's…Sylar's great. He'd never hurt anyone."

"Yeaaaah," drawled Elle. "And he died too, right? The murderer. Seven years ago. But they never found the body…"

"I was there, okay? I saw him- the man you're talking about- get stabbed," Peter insisted. Which was actually entirely true. "That guy at Kirby Plaza wasn't my brother." This was also a fact…from a 'certain' point of view, as Obi-Wan Kenobi would wink.

Elle swayed a little, clearly unconvinced, but she let the argument drop. "Oh well. I thought that could have been interesting, having a brain-snatcher in the family. But if he's as boring and ordinary as you say, then I guess I can live with that too."

She was baiting him to say more. To fall into a trap of his own words. Damn, this girl knew how to play the game. Adam was a smooth talker himself, but Elle Bishop nearly put him to shame.

He was really starting to lose his patience with this one.

Elle shrugged and continued. "_You _seem interesting though."

She started walking closer, hips swaying with every step. Peter's chest filled with dread. "Don't worry, Peter," she whispered. "Adam doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything I do. I don't even see him that much. And you think I'm gonna let a pretty boy like you get away?" Her eyes were a bit mad and her smile a bit broken as she held up a lovely manicured hand, a blue ball of energy crackling in her clutch.

_Electricity, _Peter realized. _That's why absorbing her power felt so odd. Electricity. _And then: _But just because Adam's neglecting his kitten doesn't mean I need to get in this middle of this. _

After all, he didn't exactly feel like getting roasted today, by his father's jealously _or _by this woman's cobalt fire. 

"Listen," Peter tried, voice wavering nervously. He could take on super-villains, the end of the world, and a waltz through Hell itself and live to tell the tales with no remorse. But there was something downright freaking terrifying about this woman.

He held up his hands in half-truce, half-protection. "I don't know what's up with you and Adam, but uh…count me out, okay? I'm just…I've got problems of my _own _to deal with right now."

The blue heat in Elle's hand throbbed even brighter. "Maybe I can help you relieve some of that stress."

As she got closer and closer, Peter saw there was only one thing left to do. However childish, however rash it totally was.

The empath shot a panicked look towards his father's bedroom and abruptly bellowed, "Adam!"

Monroe was there in a flash, blonde head sticking out of his bedroom. "You called?"

"Elle wants to say goodbye to you before you leave," Peter lied before the woman could voice a protest. He leaned away from the pouty minx, whose electricity had mysteriously gone back into hiding. "_Alone." _

Adam gave Elle an eager smile, cracking his door open a little wider in invitation. She was clearly resisting the urge to roll her eyes towards Peter, but she obliged. Just as she followed Adam into the bedroom, she threw an irate look over her shoulder at the empath.

The door closed behind the pair and Peter let out a sigh of relief. Thank God he'd never absorbed a pheromone power. Because if there was anything left to make this situation worse- _that _was it.

xxx

"I've decided I don't really like him," Elle said breezily. "He's not much fun."

Adam's back was turned on her, masking his smirk. He knew all about his mistress's extremely flirtatious tendencies, and had no question about what 'fun' meant to her.

"He's a noble man," Adam dryly responded, finally twisting to face Elle. "And I know what you think about them."

"Boring," she agreed, sitting down on the bed across from him. Her eyes watched him intensely as he stuffed half his closet and a few toiletries into a small leather suitcase.

"I want to come with you," she announced, now sounding incredibly serious, the faux vixen tone utterly erased. "It's important."

"We've already discussed this," Adam reminded her, now struggling to close his suitcase. It was putting up a fight, but he managed to zip it up, slowly but surely.

"Yeah, and you're still wrong," she snapped back. "My power is a lot stronger than yours, Adam. Plus, I've got my own plans for this trip."

"Your power_ is_ strong," Adam admitted. "But thanks to Peter, we've already added it to our artillery."

Elle gave him a confused stare. She knew Peter was a mutant, but Adam hadn't yet expounded what the exact power was.

"Oh, I neglected to mention that, I suppose. Peter is a mimic. He absorbs other people's abilities permanently."

Elle gaped, suddenly feeling a sense of filthiness wash over her. "He took my power?!"

"You still have it," the older man quickly responded, his voice soothing. "It's perfectly well, my dear. He's just copying it."

Elle crossed her arms over her chest. "Still. I feel like I got robbed."

"Don't worry about it," Adam said softly, abandoning his packing for a moment to step closer to her. He placed his hands delicately on her shoulders and rested his forehead against hers. "Peter has so many abilities, I'm sure he'll just forget all about it."

Adam pressed a kiss behind her ear and was rewarded with a tiny burst of electric sparks that cascaded across his lips. He smiled warmly against her skin.

"I'll be missing that," he murmured. She obligingly shocked him again, more passive than usual- more spark, less burn- on the hip.

"Promise me one thing?" Elle whispered against his hair, fingers slipping down to entwine with Adam's own hands. The immortal nearly felt sincerity there. It was the first time that he _actually _considered that maybe…maybe there was more than just raw lust and necessity between him and Elle. Maybe there was actually some affection buried beneath their circumstances.

"What is that, love?"

Elle smirked. "Promise me that you won't chase any pretty Italian women out there."

Adam nearly chuckled. "I know not to mess with you."

They locked in one final kiss before Adam slipped out of her arms, entering the living room to re-greet Peter. Elle silently trailed behind him with a glower, leaning in the bedroom doorway as she watched father and son interact.

"Ready?" Peter said. Adam nodded a little reluctantly. It wasn't the teleportation that scared him. He'd done that enough with Hiro in feudal Japan. The only thing that worried Adam now was Peter's rather peaky appearance. The miracle doctor had half a mind to take the bus.

Too late, though. By the time Adam opened his mouth to speak, Peter had placed his hand on Adam's shoulder and was already teleporting them away. But not before catching, with a lurch in his stomach, the subtle wink that Elle directed his way.

xxx

"Ahhhrrrrggg!!" yelled Adam as he collapsed onto Sylar's living room floor. Peter and the suitcase were luckily both right beside him on the carpet. Sylar noticed with a fair amount of concern that his brother's breathing was labored, and that Peter seemed to have trouble climbing onto the couch. But there was a more immediate problem at hand.

Adam swore angrily, holding a hand up for everyone to see. "What in God's name did you do to me?!"

Sylar's eyes fell to Adam's bloody left hand. To the space where Adam's index finger_ should_ have been.

"You left a finger behind?" Claire asked, kneeling before the other regenerator. She cocked her head, appearing more curious than worried. "Will it grow back?"

Adam nodded and sat up on his haunches, shaking the hand as if to get more circulation back to it. "Oh yes, I'll be fine." He then shot a glare towards his panting son. "It's just a bit of a nasty shock to get dismembered without warninglike that."

"I've never had that happen before," Hiro frowned, then appearing a bit sheepish under the scowl that Peter directed towards him.

"Yeah, well you're not dealing with broken empathy over here," Peter snapped back. "I've had trouble controlling _all_ my powers since I came back."

_Emotions, _Sylar realized internally. _Peter uses his ability by connecting with other people, but the rebirth has made him apathetic. It's tarnishing his powers. _

"Look, see," Adam was saying to Claire, holding up his palm closer to her so she could have a better look. "It's already coming back."

The young blonde watched on in fascination as a bone bloomed from the gruesome stump, then was latticed with blood vessels, skin cells, and even a few flaxen knuckle hairs. Within seconds, there were only a couple flecks of dried blood to show that Adam had any injury at all.

"Wow," she gasped, shakily reaching out to touch Adam's hand. He offered it towards her more, turning it on its other side so she could run her fingers over the perfect, unscarred flesh where there had just been a wound.

"I've never cut anything off," she mumbled, looking up to meet his eyeline. "I wasn't sure if it'd come back."

"I learned the hard way," he grimly explained, withdrawing his hand once she was done exploring it. "The American Revolution. A cannonball blew my foot off in battle. You can thank your Yankee ancestors."

Claire cringed and Adam merely smiled, lending her an arm to help her off the floor.

Meanwhile, Sylar was handing Peter a glass of water, which the shorter twin downed in one gulp. Peter wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and gratefully thanked Sylar, before rising from the couch. Sweat still glinted off his forehead and his face glowed pale in the dawn's light, but his resolve was as firm as always.

"Did you already take Micah to stay with Mohinder?" he inquired of Hiro. The man from Japan nodded.

"Yes. Kicking and screaming, but he went." Hiro removed a few needle-tipped syringes from his pocket. Each needle was covered with a clear rubber sheath for safe-keeping. "I got these from Mohinder as well. For Adam's blood."

His expression went a bit weird for a second when he mentioned the immortal's name. It was clear that Hiro still put _no _trust into Monroe.

"Excellent," breathed Adam, holding out his hand towards the samurai. "I'll take those; thank you, Hiro."

The samurai reluctantly gave over Mohinder's empty syringes, ignoring the soldier sense buzzing in the back of his brain like a hive of bees. He felt, in brutal honesty, like he was handing over the lives of every one of his comrades in that very moment. Kensei acted as if all was forgiven, but could anyone truly forget losing the woman they loved? Especially when that woman waltzed into the arms of someone, namely Hiro, whom Adam assumed was a friend? Though Hiro's trust in his childhood hero was non-existent, he had to be honest with himself. Adam had more reason to doubt Hiro than Hiro had to judge Adam.

Plus, if Hiro could forgive Sylar for slaying Charlie, then this thing with Adam should be child's play.

Peter took a breath. "Okay. We're all ready, aren't we? I'll take two of you and-"

"_Hell_ no," Niki declared, raising her palms. "I am _not_ teleporting with Peter today." She gave him a mildly sympathetic look. "No offense."

"What am I, the _short straw_?" Peter replied, rolling his eyes. "It's easy. I'll take Adam and Claire. They can regenerate in case anything goes wrong. Hiro can take Niki and Sylar."

The group exchanged looks. It was a pretty fair plan, except perhaps on Adam and Claire. Realistically, if one teleportation across town had left a finger behind, the regenerators didn't even want to _imagine_ the results of a jump to the other side of the world, with an extra person, _while _Peter was already exhausted.

Claire had a feeling that she might be meeting her insides again very soon. The slightly horrified look on Adam's face told her that he was sensing the exact same thing.

"I can make two trips," Hiro suggested. "You don't look so good, Peter."

"I'll be fine," he insisted, sniffing in a large amount of air. "Just…just go on. We'll be right behind you."

Hiro cast Peter one final hesitant gaze before taking hold of Sylar and Niki, both by the elbow, and blinking out of space and time. Peter glanced over to Adam and Claire, who were standing suspiciously close to one another.

"C'mon," he said, holding out both arms. "Let's get it over with."

"Ladies first," Adam said roguishly to Claire, gesturing towards his son and earning him a glare from the pretty blonde. The girl looked back to Peter and nervously stepped forward, curving her body into one of his sides. His arm around her was slightly comforting, but the mental image of her getting severed like a magician's assistant kept popping up behind her eyes. Yeah, she'd heal from it, but she'd still feel the pain. And though Adam's finger could grow back, Claire wasn't so sure she could regenerate her entire bottom half.

Peter reached forward and grabbed Monroe by the sleeve, pulling his young father closer. Adam's face was possibly whiter than his crisp dress shirt by now, though he forced a tight smile down at Claire. She could only grimace back at him.

"Hold your breath," Peter retorted, before tightening his grip, closing his eyes, and following the others to the Holy City.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	11. Forgive Me, Father

Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

"**Forgive Me, Father"**

Even though teleportation was instant, the time zone change made it much later in Vatican City than San Francisco. It was nearly noon when the motley group inconspicuously popped into the mini-country, all in the same place: St. Peter's Square.

The second trio dissolved into the air not far from Hiro, Niki, and Sylar, and luckily not long after. And though the regenerators were all cringing when they arrived, anticipating another splicing, every part of Peter, Claire, and Adam indeed survived a leap across the pond.

Sylar, however, seemed a little less hale and healthy. He lay slumped against a Roman column, sweat dripping down his forehead, prickling his eyelashes. The teleportation poisoning was already taking hold of his cells.

The first thing that caught Peter's eye when he could finally stand on steady feet was his brother's poor health. The empath nudged Adam and gestured towards his labored twin, silently instructing his father to do what they'd pre-planned.

Adam glanced around; making sure no one could see them. The group was masked in the shadowed edge of the oval-shaped plaza. Unfortunately, the square was extremely crowded because of the Christmas mass, leading Peter to wonder how the hell they were _ever _going to get inside to stop Leelee unnoticed.

Petrelli could only hope, as he watched Adam draw blood from his own arm, that perhaps the paintings were spread out. There was a chance that Leelee's assault on Vatican City _wasn't _today, _wasn't _when the square was at its most crowded and vulnerable for an attack.

However, he wasn't holding his breath. When had Lady Luck everbeen on their side?

As Adam injected Sylar with a syringeful of miracle blood, color returned to the amnesiac's face almost immediately. Adam's super-antibodies were busy at work, repairing all of Sylar's shredded internal helixes and ragged cells. Within mere seconds, Sylar was on his feet again, every aspect of his being suddenly more refreshed. Even some of the grey had disappeared from his hair.

Peter kind of wished for a pick-me-up of his own. After the teleportation to Italy, he was _really _starting to feel like shit. But he knew that his bane couldn't be cured with a simple blood transfusion. If his own regeneration wasn't taking care of this lethargy, brought on by cracked empathy, he doubted that Adam could help him.

"What now?" Claire spoke up, looking around the plaza. Her expression was blank, lost, sort of worried. Like she didn't no where to begin. Peter could relate, strongly so, but his lips remained zippered. He merely averted his eyes and shuffled his feet and waited for someone else to take the lead this time.

Not surprisingly, it was Monroe. After all, the man had four-hundred years experience in fighting wars, starting companies, organizing attack plans. If anyone was an expert on how to run the show, it was him.

"We should first try to find this Leelee Lang," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps we can intercept her before she begins her plans."

Sylar turned towards his twin, a bit trepid. "Are you up to it, Peter?"

Peter sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Sure," he agreed breathlessly. "Just gimme a picture of her or something."

"I have one on my cell…" Sylar answered carefully. "Do you want get some water or something before you try, because Leelee might not be coming for _days_, and you don't want to overexert-,"

"Give me the damn phone," Peter quietly growled, firmly outstretching his hand. It took Sylar a moment to register that he'd been given a demand, sharp like a snap of a bed sheet. It was the most disturbing moment he'd shared with Peter since the revival. Sure, they'd disagreed, bantered, even argued sometimes, but never before had Sylar seen such a sheer lack of compassion glinting in Peter's eyes.

Sylar's face morphed into somewhat of a scowl as he wordlessly thrust the phone into his brother's hand. Peter expertly weaved through the settings until he reached the camera database. The results turned out to be even easier than he'd suspected. There were only three pictures on Sylar's phone- one of Niki and Micah, one of the mantelpiece, and one of Sylar, an Asian woman, and a man with striking baby-blue eyes all standing by the battery.

Peter stared at the female, at her heavy mascara, wicked little grin, and clip-in hair pieces. She was distinct; that was a good sign. With the way his powers had been going, Peter needed this to be as easy as possible.

A small voice inside of him said he was being a jerk about this whole thing. _You should be __thankful __to be alive again. You should be __thankful __that they count on you as a leader and a hero. You should lay down and preserve your powers so you can help them____more. _

But that was just a small part of his insides. The tiny glimmer of "Petey" that was still swimming around him somewhere, just an echo of his soul, a memory, a record on a repeat. Not a living, thinking, or even rational part of Peter's mind. His martyr complex had unfortunately survived the transition from the afterlife to Earth, but not his empathy. One without the other made for either an extreme do-gooder, or a hostile loner. In this case, it was the second.

He didn't really care about saving the world to be perfectly frank; he'd already saved it a thousand times over and that obviously proved to have done _no _good whatsoever. He really didn't care about any of these so-called comrades. But in all sportsmanship, he really didn't care about his own well-being either.

It hadn't been so bad at first. But the more and more he attempted and struggled to use his powers, the more and more irritable he grew. Failure wasn't something Peter liked, or was used to. To fail by his own weak limits was even more mortifying.

Thus, he'd carry on until he broke. In a twisted way, that made him at least _feel _like the nice guy he wasn't at the moment.

He took a deep breath. "This should take about a minute," he softly explained, closing his eyes. The others all took a step back for some reason, as if they expected him to burst into flames or something equally as violent. _Maybe not such a bad idea, _Peter considered. _With the way my abilities are going, it's sort of a jack-and-the-box of what you're going to get. _

That was the last stray thought before he was focusing on Molly Walker, sweet, innocent Molly. How did he feel about her? How did he feel about her, and her smile, and her power and her candy-coated outlook on life?

_No idea. Haven't seen her in nine months. _

No. Pull yourself together. Remember her.

_Er…giggly, nice, kind of mysterious at points_? _I don't know. _

No. No. No. Remember. How. You. Felt.

_I don't feel anything! _

You did at one point. Remember that. Remember living in Boston. Remember the bordello's green wallpaper. Remember your bedroom, lined with PEZ dispensers…

…_remember Molly and Mohinder coming over for tea every afternoon. Molly hiding her face in my shoulder when we watched horror movies. Molly throwing away all modesty and kissing me right on the mouth after I'd saved her from the FBI, and then not talking to me for a week in embarrassment. Molly confiding to me that she secretly wanted to be a cheerleader, and how that made me think of Claire so much that I had to leave the room…_

It was like a switch had suddenly been flipped on in Peter's mind. One second, he was straining for power and holding onto it by a little thread and the next thing he knew, a map of the world was at his fingertips. He could almost feel the stardust brushing over his knuckles.

_Leelee Lang. _

Peter's eyes flitted back and forth underneath his lids, a waking R.E.M as he searched for Leelee. One black-clad woman in a sea of billions. As the world's population rushed behind his retinas, Peter discovered a newfound respect for this ability. Molly's power really was extraordinary. Plucking out one human being, one four-leafed clover from a field of jade conformity. Incredible.

"I can see her…I think…" he forced out through heavy lips. The connection fractured when he talked to his real-life comrades. Still, he persevered, despite the feeling of red warmth dripping from one nostril like syrup. "Old…white…moped…"

"Where?" Hiro persisted gently.

Peter gritted his teeth, forcing his search to zoom in even closer. All that existed now was flashes. He needed to get a clearer picture.

_Art. Fountains. Trail of grey exhaust. Stained glass windows. Merchants of Rome. Devious giggles and the wind in her hair. Hum of a motorcycle coming this way…_

Peter collapsed onto the ground, blood pouring from his nose like a waterfall. His head pounded with fatigue, eyes tightly crinkled shut, fingers clawing at his temples. The murmurs and footsteps of his friends hovered over him, vacuuming away the breathing room. He could feel a few hands on his back. The comfort was lost on him.

"She's close," he gasped, voice cracking with exhaustion. "She's coming this way right now."

"Oh no," Niki whispered. "What now? Peter's incapacitated, and none of us are ready."

"I'll be okay," Peter garbled out, utterly unconvincingly. He still had an arm slung over his abs, keeled over as if he was about to be sick. "Five minutes. Just give me five minutes."

"As much as I admire your 'never give up' attitude," Adam quipped, his words cutting like a machete, "if you keep this up, you're going to give yourself an brain hemorrhage. And even our ability won't fix that."

Peter finally forced his eyes to open, just so he could glare at his father. The father who was, as Peter suspected, gazing at Claire when the words '_our _ability' had fallen from his thin lips.

Peter viciously got to his feet and wiped the blood from his nose. He would have stumbled flat on his face again if it hadn't been for Claire, who was there immediately at his side to steady his footing. He mumbled a 'thanks' and then shrugged off her hold, stepping out of the shadows and into the sun.

The lovely Italian sky hovered over him, unshielded now, clear as crystal. _No, not Italian, _Peter remembered. _Vatican. Vatican City is its own papal state. _

"Sylar!" he called hoarsely, waving to his brother. Sylar was still pretty miffed about the sharpness of Peter's earlier words, but there was no space to hold grudges in a time like this, especially if you were on the same side.

So Sylar joined his brother in the midday sun, a loyal and forgiving soldier as always.

"Yes?"

"Can you listen for a moped coming? Please?" Peter panted, waving a hand towards a street in the distance. "Really loud. Really grimy-sounding. No muffler."

The amnesiac nodded and closed his eyes for a moment, cocking his head to listen in on the bustle of Vatican City's streets.

"There's three," Sylar announced after ten seconds, still poised in 'listening' mode. "Three coming this way, I think."

"You're sure they're coming _towards_ us?"

Sylar shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Not sure if they're coming _here, _but they are coming in our direction. I trust the Doppler Effect."

"Of course," Peter nodded, recalling the Doppler Effect from physics class in high school._ And object sounds louder as it gets closer, and it sounds quieter as it goes further away. _Basic stuff.

He seemed more composed now, having returned to equilibrium after his last use of power. Somehow, getting Sylar to do the work for once was oddly liberating. Not that he liked bossing his brother around. Simply, having some of the weight taken off of Peter's own shoulders was a fully welcomed relief.

"We should head inside the church," Hiro announced. "There, we can stake out and wait for her to arrive."

"It's so big though," Niki murmured. "How are we all gonna find where the painting takes place?"

"We split up," Adam said. "Sylar and Hiro, Peter and Niki, Claire and I…"

"Claire can come with me, actually," Sylar interrupted his father. "Two regenerators aren't going to be very efficient together."

He voiced it casually, like a strategy, and the others seem to buy it. But in reality, Sylar was doing it for the wellness of Peter and Claire. As soon as he's mentioned Claire's power to Adam in the hospital, he'd spotted a sparkle of intrigue in the immortal man's eyes. It wasn't rocket science after all: Adam had been alone for four-hundred years, and suddenly, a lovely female immortal walks into his life. If Sylar was in Adam's position, he'd probably feel the same way- amazed and smitten.

But Claire belonged with Peter, now and always. And if Peter himself couldn't do anything to stop Adam's advances, then Sylar'd be there to do it for him.

"Alright," Adam reiterated, clearly put down a notch. "Claire and Sylar. Peter and I. Hiro and Niki. That's a pretty equal distribution of power, eh?"

Indeed. Sylar nor Adam could be with Hiro- Adam for personal reasons and Sylar for biological ones. Adam couldn't be with Claire either, because Sylar claimed her. Adam wouldn't be much use with Niki, because both their abilities had short ranges, so his only other option was Peter.

"Okay gang," the empath himself croaked. He was still pretty beat. "Let's go pay the Pope a visit."

xxx

Getting inside of the church was ridiculously easy, despite the metal detectors, baggage check, and dress code. Getting around the massive crowds and in-progress Christmas mass ceremonies however, was another story.

"Why's the end of the world gotta be on Christmas?" Peter griped, shouldering his way through mobs of chatty, pious Italians. "Couldn't it be on _Arbor Day _or some other time when there's not two-thousand people between us and saving the planet?"

"Kirby Plaza was on Election Day," Claire recalled. She was right behind him, hand on his arm so they wouldn't get separated. The rest of the group made a train behind her, beginning with Niki, who was lightly holding on to Claire's shirt collar. A seven-story golden leafed tower loomed over them in the lobby, but there was unfortunately no time to enjoy the sights.

"And look," Sylar called wistfully from somewhere behind them. He pointed a finger to one of the huge, windows. "On top of everything else, it's about to rain."

Peter stopped unexpectedly, and his five mutant comrades became a bundled, grumbling heap behind him. His face was frozen, neither smiling nor frowning as he investigated his brother's statement. Sylar was right. The sky had gone from blue to black in a matter of minutes.

"Strange," he said mechanically, recalling the ebony heavens of the painting. "It was sunny when we came through the entranceway."

"Oh well," Claire hastily ripped him out of his reverie, pushing him between the shoulder blades. "C'mon. We need to get going."

After finally breaking free of the crowd, Petrelli led the unlikely heroes to a less traveled, "employees only" hallway in St. Peter's Basilica. Eventually they ended up underneath a shining dome, which was covered from top to bottom with impeccable paintings of angels and demons. There were four hallways that lead out from under the dome, all equidistant from each other. It was like they were standing in the middle of Michelangelo's giant compass.

Peter looked over his shoulder to see if any clergyman were around. The coast was clear for now.

"Okay," he breathed. "I guess we should break up here. But…" He glanced towards Adam. "If someone finds Leelee, how will we contact each other?"

"There's this lovely invention of the twenty-first century, my son," Adam smiled, reaching into his pocket to pull out a Sprint Katana. "They're called _cell phones_."

"That'll take too long to program," Sylar shook his head, already taking Claire by the arm and pulling her towards the western wing. "Trust me- you'll _know_ when something significant happens. Just keep an eye out for explosions, screams, or other generic signs of madness."

"I suppose I'll be taking the veteran's word for it," Adam piped. He waved towards Peter, then to the north hallway. "Shall we?"

Peter nodded, and then did an about-face to Hiro and Niki. "Okay. I guess you two can take the south area, cause the eastern side is blocked off with people for now."

"With our luck, that's where Leelee is going," Niki said flatly. "All those people…"

"Hope not. And I wouldn't think so either. The painting showed her alone, not surrounded by churchgoers. One of us will find her, I'm sure."

"Good luck," wished Hiro grimly. Peter clapped his samurai friend on the shoulder and ran after Adam, who'd already started off to the north.

xxx

"I have no idea where we're going," Peter openly admitted, right off the bat.

Adam didn't lose a single beat in his rhythmic jogging. He was stone-cold nonchalant. "Good thing you have me, then. I used to live in Rome. I've been here several times."

"You're familiar with this place?" Peter was amused. "Nifty."

Adam snorted. "I've been around four-hundred years, and you think I've _never _come here? Honestly. I could have been Pope two lifetimes ago for all you know. In fact, I've been to just about every international landmark. Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal, Niagara Falls. You name it; I've been there at least twice."

"Alright. I'll put it to the test," Peter rapidly fired back. "If you were a psychotic chick who wanted to light Italy on fire and you happened to be inside the Vatican, what room would you go to?"

"Hypothetically, of course?" Adam grinned.

Despite the gravity of the situation, and his mixed feelings for the man beside him, Peter couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah. Hypothetically for you, at least."

They continued to run down a seemingly never-ending corridor, which was lit with rows upon rows of slender candles. It cast a yellow-ish glow onto the ceiling murals, as well as Adam and Peter themselves.

Suddenly, Adam stopped in place, his feet skidding a little on the ancient marble tiles. Peter looked back and frowned at his father, waiting for an answer.

"I'd go somewhere high up," Adam finally replied. "It's awfully sketchy logic, I know, but…if Leelee wants to make it rain, shouldn't she be close to the sky?"

"That is really sketchy," Peter agreed. "But it's all we've got right now. You know where there's some sort of balcony around here?"

"Yes, yes. There's a mass chamber up ahead to the left. Huge. Lots of stained glass pictures, like in your prediction. And also, a colossal balcony."

Peter's lips parted in recognition as they began running again. "Oh yeah. I remember learning about that when I was a kid. Hundreds of steps. It's ancient."

"Fancy that," Adam retorted, feigning shock. "Something else that's actually older than me."

xxx

Meanwhile, Niki Sanders and Hiro Nakamura were camped out on in an alcove on the complete other side of the church, closer to one of the southern entrances.

"What does she even look like?" Niki whispered, kneeling deeper into the shade. "Sylar never showed me that picture of her on his phone."

"I guess we can go roughly by what the painting said," Hiro suggested. "She looked like she had black hair…interesting clothing. Truthfully, I think we could just look for a woman who is out of place."

Niki smirked. "You mean she's the one who's _not _an Italian hat lady?"

Though Hiro knew she was only being sarcastic, he couldn't help but wonder how exactly Leelee was going to get _into _St. Peter's Basilica. In Sylar's painting, the woman's clothes didn't seem nearly modest enough for the sanctity of the church. He knew from research that, even on a normal day, you had to be wearing long sleeves and pants to enter the Vatican.

Then again, if Peter could turn them invisible, perhaps Leelee could do the same thing. They really had no gauge of her abilities. If she wanted to get in, she'd _find _a way in.

And indeed Leelee did. Right as Niki finished her _hat lady _jibe, both the widow and the samurai could hear the thud of footsteps coming their way. (Thanks to the lovely Doppler Effect once again.)

Hiro lightly touched Niki on both shoulders and pulled her closer into the darkness, while he himself maneuvered his way around her. Soon, Niki was no more than a leggy single mother awkwardly folded up in a corner, with a spiky-haired Asian guy blocking her view of the hallway.

Hiro stuck out his head and took a brief peek around the corner. He snapped back into the shadows like a rubber band, almost giving Niki a jolt with his speed.

"It's her," he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. He carefully pulled his sword out from under them, and miraculously did it without a sound. "Stay down."

He quietly unsheathed his weapon and got into a standing position, his back sliding up the wall so the shadows still masked his movements. Niki, unlike Claire, was much more accepting of that frequently uttered order. Though she could kick Leelee's ass at close range, she was no match for Hiro's training and skill. Between the two of them, he was the more logical choice for this attack.

Especially when they weren't really sure what they were dealing with in the first place.

Hiro tip-toed up behind Leelee, silent as the evening wind. Niki's hand was clamped over her own mouth, muting her unstable breaths. The lighting in this hallway was pretty decent, but both Hiro and Leelee were dressed in raw matte black.

The samurai got within three feet of the lithe woman before setting the sharp blade of his katana against the top of her spinal column. She immediately halted, as if frozen in time. For a moment, Hiro almost considered _actually _stopping the clock and killing her that way. But no…best to give this vixen the benefit of the doubt. She could prove to be useful, at least for information.

"Stop right there, Miss Lang," Hiro said coolly. "You'll never get past us."

"Ohhhh," Leelee smirked. "You _know_ you'll have to do better than that."

Hiro brought the sword off her neck, swinging it in an arc in a preparation to strike. But in that small window of time, the villain managed to duck out from the target zone, and kick Hiro's feet out from under him with a _swoosh _of her long leg.

The ninja was able to recover with a stylish spin, as if he'd never been knocked off balance to begin with. But by the time he raised his sword again, Leelee was twice the length away. Hiro hesitated and slowly took four steps to the left, creating a barrier between Leelee and Niki. Thaw widow still sat huddled in the gloom.

Golden smoke was now slithering out from the pores in Leelee's skin and the wispy hand stretched towards Hiro, reaching to engulf him in venom. He heroically advanced towards her, hacking away at the thick mist with his sword. But it was fruitless. Even the shining blade of Kensei couldn't stop the impending fog.

Hiro took in one sharp, accidental gasp and suddenly collapsed onto the ground, his katana scattering away. His lungs burned, his throat was on fire. Whatever Leelee's smoke was had gone beyond his control, suffocating him and placing a blurry tint over his vision.

_Poison, _he realized, even through the miasma. _Hold your breath, Niki. _

Speak of the devil. Niki watched on in horror as her friend and ally fell in a graceful arc to the floor. She could hear the heart-cracking clank of a metal katana slamming into marble tile. And most horribly, she could smell the toxin coming from Leelee Lang. It was like a mix of arsenic and almonds with a dash of stale corpses. Unimaginable.

Miss Sanders was not a damsel in distress, though. If anything, _that _role went to Hiro at the moment. And after years of friendship and camaraderie, there was no way she was letting this chick away without a fight.

Niki stood from the alcove, thankfully masked by the yellow smoke. Leelee's own weapon being used against her. Niki briefly smiled and internally quoted Sylar. _"Life has its poetry." _

The blonde's heart filled with rage when she spied Leelee's silhouette through the fog, leaning over Hiro and giving him a good kick to the temple with her combat boot. Niki had to restrain herself from making any noise, lest she'd give her position away. She could scream inside her head though, where it was safe to make an absolute hurricane of fury.

_That's it. She is going _down_. _

"Thanks for playing fair, you bitch!" Niki snapped, catching the Asian woman off guard right at the perfect moment. Leelee barely got a look at her sassy blonde adversary before she was eating Niki's fist, flying backwards fifteen feet.

"Oof!"

Niki didn't have time to gloat. She was too busy falling to Hiro's side and shaking her friend's unconscious form. Hiro was definitely alive, but his eyes were slivers of white underneath pale lids.

Leelee was healing and fleeing at the same time; pale smoke licking along her facial wound and healing it up as she stood and ran for it. Niki cast one hopeless glance at the sprinting freak of nature. There was no way to catch Leelee, though. She wasn't leaving Hiro's side.

All she could hope was that Sylar would live up to his paranoia today and do exactly what she expected he was: listening in on the whole affair with his super-hearing for her 'safety.' And if that was the case, he'd know exactly where to catch their dark minx.

xxx

Sylar snorted, prompting Claire to arch her eyebrow at him. His blush was instantaneous.

"Um…Niki just said something about hat…" He hesitated and shook his head. "Never mind."

"I take it you found them, then?" she confirmed boredly. They were stuck in a mission Limbo right now. The FBI jocks she used to run with called it "dead time."

Sylar nodded. "Yes." He tilted his ear a few degrees and slowly began to grapevine over in a southeast direction. "This way."

They walked along for several more paces, Sylar occasionally letting out a little chuckle, a little inside joke to himself that made Claire roll her eyes. _Is now really the time to be fawning over-_

"Whoa." Sylar severed her unsavory thoughts by holding up a palm. He curved the other hand around his ear, listening closer. "Everything just stopped."

"Whatdaya mean it stopped_?_"

"As in silence- this thing that happens when there's no noise," Sylar swiftly enlightened. "As in, for some reason, no one is doing anything. Everything has _stopped._"

"Maybe they found her," Claire whispered, placing a delicate hand over her lips. "Listen harder!"

Peter's brother nodded and obliged, taking a plunge back into the audio waves. Oh…no, no, he realized. Claire was right. He had been wrong. Niki and Hiro weren't doing 'nothing.' He could footsteps now, little vibrations on the floor. And then a raspy, sultry voice that he'd take to the grave.

"_Oh. You know you'll have to do better than that."_

"Leelee's here." Sylar inhaled a sharp breath, stopping in place and taking Claire with him. "And Hiro just…ooh."

"Ooh?" Claire grabbed him frantically by the arm. "What does _'ooh'_ mean in Sylar Speak?"

The amnesiac glanced up at her, just for a moment. She could see his wrists starting to tremble, which made a pulse of horror spread in Claire's gut like a bloodstain on an ivory shirt.

"We have to go help them, Claire." Sylar swallowed harshly. He grabbed her hand and began pulling her hapless form down the corridor, to their friends in peril. "For in my lexicon, 'ooh' translates to 'Oh, shit.'"

xxx

"Ow," Hiro croaked. _Ow? _Lord, he couldn't believe he actually said that. Battojutsu master of five years. What would his sensei think?

"Hiro!" cried a woman. Close by, too. A fuzzy blonde shape was coming into focus. _Niki…_

"Oh God! Are you okay?"

Hiro let out a muffled string of syllables, which mostly sounded like "_Urrrrrggggg." _

"Come on; let me help you up."

He felt a surprisingly strong pair of arms slip around his body, pulling him into an upright position. Hiro took it for face value; he was too much in a daze to remember that Niki actually had super strength.

He wasn't, however, in enough of a tizzy to forget his attacker. "Where'd she go?" Hiro groaned.

"That way," she said. Niki was pointing up the corridor. Hiro had blinked enough film from his eyes to at least see that. "She's about a minute ahead of us now."

A force he couldn't control- mainly, a widow's muscles- was tugging him the opposite way of gravity once again. He'd been drugged before, as well as knocked out, so this wasn't too much of a blow to recover from. Once Hiro was back on his feet, the world started straightened out.

"Why didn't you go after her?" he gasped. They were walking arm-in-arm until Hiro could support himself.

"I wasn't going on without you!" Niki replied immediately. "I couldn't take her by myself if I _wanted _to." Which was only half true. Niki could definitely put a hurt on the bitch, but only if she caught Leelee by surprise.

Then, in a shift of mood, she jabbed Hiro playfully in one of the few places that was still ticklish- his sixth rib. Hiro let out an involuntary giggle- and was immediately mortified. All those years of respect he'd earned as a samurai were increasingly slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

"Besides, Crouching Tiger," Niki winked, right as the roar of a new crowd was beginning to sound in the distance. "You think I was gonna leave you to the old ladies?"

xxx

Hiro had been trained in several aspects of fitness when he became a samurai. He could do dozens of push-ups without breaking a sweat, smash a concrete brick with his bare hand, and generally put anyone in their place with his fierce glare alone. But running had never been his strong point, simply because of his physique. All the training in the world wasn't going to make his short legs any leaner.

Niki Sanders, on the other hand, had the bottom half of a Barbie doll- long, strong, and perfectly curved. So while she ran like a freaking gazelle, Hiro resembled a wobbly penguin, always one pace behind her.

At least he could walk without her now, having recovered pretty well from Leelee's mysterious toxin. And by the time Niki and Hiro got back to where they'd started, their stamina was pretty equal. Hiro had short legs and poison running through his veins, but Niki, never the exerciser, was plagued by plain exhaustion.

But something was about to distract them from their burning lungs and thumping hearts.

"NIKI! HIRO!"

The warrior and the blonde whipped their heads around, immediately greeted with two very familiar faces.

"Sylar!" Niki called, eagerly hailing over her lover, who was flanked closely by Claire. The four friends reunited right under the dome where they'd first split up; now back to square one.

"Are you both alright?" Sylar blurted. "I heard something happen, and we decided to follow you."

"I think I lost my sense of smell, but I'll be okay," Hiro weakly groaned, raising a hand in acknowledgement.

"You _were_ listening?" Niki said coyly. "So predictable."

"But where are Peter and Adam?" Claire panted, getting them back on track. "They could be lost, and we need both of them."

"They headed up to the north part of the church, which is the same direction Leelee is now going," Hiro recalled. "We can start by looking there. I believe that wing has a room that could resemble our painting."

_Thank God for Wikipedia, _he thought as the quartet started to race down the upper hallway, after Leelee and their MIA comrades. Earlier that morning, while Peter had been picking up Adam, Hiro and the others had been doing their homework on all the places they expected to visit. They definitely couldn't write a thesis with their current knowledge, but at least they could get around a bit easier.

"Nice," Niki said tersely. Her breath was already becoming labored and short. She was a fast waitress and an even sharper mom, but this extreme cardio stuff was really tiring after a while.

"Hang in there, Niki," Sylar said thoughtfully, putting an arm around her shoulders as they sprinted.

Claire looked down at her rapidly jogging feet, which had a lot more spring than any of her three allies. Regeneration had its advantages sometimes, even if it was somewhat alienating.

They turned round a bend, now on a straight pathway to the northernmost mass chamber. This hall was a little dimmer, with nothing but candlelight to lead the way. And as they whipped past the rows of flames, there sounded an explosion of noise so strong that it shook the Vatican floor.

The friends stopped, listening close. A tiny aftershock, faintly heard, boomed in addition to the first jolt.

"It's thunder," Claire said in a mouse's volume. "The storm's starting."

"And we know it's no ordinary storm," Niki mumbled after they began their stride once more. "Can this _get _any worse?"

"I hate to be Johnny Raincloud, but I think it just did," Sylar moaned, throwing a glimpse over his shoulder. "Listen."

His friends, though they still kept up the pace, answered with obedient wordlessness. They expected that he was talking about another boom of thunder. Yet within moments, the _real _reason dawned on all three of them at the same time.

"It's _people. _Another service!" Claire gasped. "And they're coming to the same hall as us!"

"Oh no," Niki whispered. "I heard a crowd earlier, but I thought we'd lose them."

"That would be _lucky, _and you should never expect luck in a situation like this," Sylar retorted. "After what I did before my amnesia, I've got too much bad karma. And this is _always _when it starts to kick in."

"Hey, stop blaming your problems on your 'past' self," Claire sardonically snapped. "Just because you can't remember stealing brains, doesn't mean it wasn't _you_."

Sylar rolled his eyes, but before he could shoot back with a witty retort, his samurai friend cut him off.

"Less banter, more running," Hiro announced, now doing double time as he stowed away his fatigue and pushed onward, a few yards ahead of them. Typical soldier; nearly as regenerative as Claire, despite his physical shortcomings.

"God, it's official," Claire muttered as she, Niki, and Sylar were forced to keep up Hiro's vigorous pace. "The first thing we're doing when we get to Cairo is finding a set of _wheels_."

xxx

"This is amazing," Peter murmured as he and Adam climbed the large marble staircase that lead up to the balcony. "How did people with nothing but paintbrushes and chisels make all this?"

He saw Adam shrug up ahead of him. They were climbing at a generally normal pace, intending to camp out on the balcony, invisible, until Leelee arrived. It was a simple plan; all except for the fact that neither of them were armed and Peter wasn't sure which, if any, of his powers would actually _kill _the woman. From what Sylar had told him about Orson, Peter suspected that these guys were a lot tougher than your average super-quick thief or pyrokinetic arsonist.

"They had _patience," _Adam finally replied. "I was living in Barcelona in the 1870's. The realm of the great architect, Antoni Gaudi. I'd watch his workers up there, erecting the same, sturdy, beautiful building for over a decade, and wonder why it was taking so long. Why did all those little details matter? Why couldn't it just be _done? _It's clear to me now, though. They were built with diligence, with no thought of instant gratification. Then 'technology' came along, and now houses are built in a week. I'll still be around when they fall, we both will. But I'm certain Gaudi's churches will outlive me by centuries."

They were at the top now and a full view of the mass hall opened like a basin below them. Peter stared upon his father in interest after the story was complete. Adam was correct again. The human race _did _used to have patience, and time, and put pride in their work. Now it was all about whoever could do it quicker. Whoever could outsource it cheaper. Whoever could gain the most for _themselves, _with no care about the quality of their work or the safety of their consumer.

Really, Adam was right about a lot of things- human nature being the most accurate of his musings. Already, Peter had learned a lot from his father, even at the age when sons usually push the knowledge away with a wrinkled nose.

Peter took a moment to admire the murals on the ceiling before glancing over at the entrance. Leelee wasn't here quite yet but he could sense, tapping into Molly's power _just so, _that she was inside the building. He lightly tugged on Adam's sleeve and pulled the blonde against the wall, channeling Claude Raines and turning them both invisible.

Adam held his hidden hand in front of his face, pleasantly surprised that he couldn't see it. "Aren't you full of surprises?" He smiled nicely.

Peter merely shrugged. "You have no idea."

He would have said more, but Adam raised a finger, silencing his son. Peter followed Monroe's eyeline to the ground, where a slender Asian woman was entering the chamber. Only now did Peter realize that the storm clouds over the plaza had grown darker and more ardent, masking Christmas afternoon with a blanket of night.

"Oh my," Adam murmured, just enough so Peter could hear. He cocked his head. "Now look at that."

Peter's eyes scanned over Leelee, searching out the object of his father's interest. "What? What is it?"

"That tattoo on the back of her neck. Why, isn't that fascinating? A bow and arrow."

Peter shook his head, choosing to ignore Adam on this occasion. There was no reason a pint-sized symbol of Cupid plastered onto Leelee's skin could be significant. Or…at least he figured.

Leelee paced the pews, muttering to herself eccentrically before abruptly turning around, pointing up to the balcony. Peter tensed up next to Adam, his grip tightening on the blonde man's arm.

Monroe turned his head "Shh…" he whispered, nearly impossible to hear. The only reason Peter caught it was because Adam's lips were nearly touching his ear.

Leelee skipped from the front of the room to the back, where the balcony resided. Both invisible men were waiting with pounding hearts, growing more and more anxious with every step Leelee took.

She was seven feet in front of them soon, peering around the space suspiciously. She knew _something _was up there; that much was obvious. But where exactly…

Without warning, Leelee smacked the wall two feet away from Peter's head, her brown eyes dancing naughtily. Peter had let out a small gasp, just a baritone vibration, but it was enough to draw Leelee's vision right to him.

Adam broke free of the invisibility before Leelee could attack, his hand aiming for the woman's neck. She grunted when he caught hold of her by the throat, her long, sharp claws vigorously attacking Adam's hand. He hissed and immediately released her, shaking his wrist in pain. Leelee retreated to the balcony railing clutching her neck, pretty features scandalized.

"Get down there!" Peter swiftly ordered, shoving his father towards the staircase for emphasis. "I'll take care of her."

Adam reluctantly followed the instructions. He'd been around longer, and he knew Peter respected his knowledge. But Peter was a tried and true soldier- someone who knew what to do in _these _sorts of situations. He had a plan.

Probably. Hopefully.

Meanwhile, Leelee's expression was disgustingly _bored. _Men, thinking they could set up a _plan _to stop her. Humans, especially these males, were so stupid.

Before Peter could make a move, Leelee slapped him harshly across the face, her venom-laced fingernails raking poisoned scratches into his skin. Peter cried out and clutched his stinging cheek. The infectant numbed his cells, slowing the regeneration, as well as the blood flow.

_Now you've got me pissed, _he inwardly growled, grabbing her roughly by the arm. In a clumsy, ungentlemanly, and rather haphazard move, he channeled Niki's power and tossed Leelee right off the side of the balcony.

She unfortunately smashed into the floor and slid across the tile as opposed to the fountain, which would have broken her fall. But alive she was at any rate, already starting to get to her feet by the time Sylar, Claire, Niki and Hiro were stumbling through the entrance doors.

Peter chose to wait on the balcony, covering more ground. It seemed that Leelee had other ideas though. He'd pushed her and she was gonna push back.

Leelee was already storming back up the stairs towards her original attacker. Adam and Claire moved to chase her, but-

"Stop!" barked Hiro. "Stay here in case she comes down. I'll help Peter."

He blinked out of space before they could protest, instantly appearing next to Peter with his sword drawn. The empath looked immediately relieved at the sight of his steel-blazing friend.

"How goes it, Hiro?" Peter asked, half-grinning.

"Rays of sunshine, Pete."

Hiro was usually a pretty flat person, but his knowledge of the English language still allowed pretty literal humor such as that. After all, it didn't take a meteorologist to see that today called for some flame-licked rain.

Leelee rolled her eyes immediately when she arrived at the top. "_You _again?" she whined at Hiro, whose resolve didn't even twitch. Peter was left with a bit of curiosity, but he pushed the feeling away. He could hear the whole story later on, when they all made it out of this- hopefully- alive.

Apparently, Leelee was a bit smarter than she looked. With a small shriek, she exploded into a burst of sand-colored fog, enveloping Peter and Hiro in gaseous poison_._ The same attack she'd already used on Hiro, but_ if it ain't broke, don't fix it_ and all.

Peter grunted and threw one last telekinetic blast towards the woman before he fell to his knees. It wasn't enough to toss her off the balcony again, but Leelee did fall backwards, tumbling halfway down the curved staircase in a squealing heap.

The yellow smoke remained as an ghost of her presence, creeping into every crevice on the upper level, masking anything within a foot of both Peter and Hiro. Both made the mistake of inhaling and obviously collapsed, shaking from the attack on their systems.

"Not again," Hiro moaned, one go-around with the toxin not making him anymore immune. He held his breath the best he could, and writhed to the ground more dramatically than necessary. He was feeling feeble, yes, but better to let Leelee believe she'd knocked him out all the way. In the summarized words of Sun Tsu: "always play possum."

Leelee managed to right herself and make it to the bottom of the staircase. Adam, Claire, and Niki were waiting- none armed, but all stone-faced. Leelee stopped, hands placed cutely on her hips, as if wondering what exactly to do with them.

Claire wasn't going to wait around and play games. She ran forward at full speed, all that FBI training suddenly coming back to her. It wasn't karate- it was a lot more violent and a little less stylish, but it got the job done. A few carefully placed punches and rough kicks to the gut and Leelee was on the floor, groaning.

As usual, the Asian woman was not to be vanquished so easily. She leapt up with the flexibility of a cobra, and Claire, the heroine, the _nice _soul, hesitated. She gave the bitch a fighting chance. But that's the problem with villains. They will kick you when you're down with a smile on their face, and that's exactly what Leelee did.

While Claire was waiting for that _one _second, that split second that let the fight carry on, Leelee struck. Her high-heeled boot smashed right in the center of Claire's chest, sending the blonde girl skidding over ten feet of Vatican floor with the wind knocked out of her. In addition to that, she cracked her head on the side of the fountain in her chaotic tumble, knocking her out completely.

"Claire!" Adam cried, rushing towards the fallen blonde.

Leelee ignored him, now rounding on Niki, who had her fists raised in preparation to strike. The widow's eyes burned with controlled fervor, her chest rising and falling with even breaths. The two women studied each other, unmoving, while all hell was breaking loose outside. The sky exploded, pouring out liquid fire and evoking the screams of thousands to echo off the cathedral walls.

Adam watched on, his breath held in anticipation. If only he had his _damn sword, _or at least a gun. He had thin fingers, pianist's hands were never made to throw a punch. At least not compared to Niki's.

And then the first strike occurred, thrown by Leelee. She jumped and swung out a foot, catching Niki on the jaw and knocking the blonde off balance. Niki stayed standing though, quickly reacting and hitting Leelee with an equal amount of force.

They fought like lionesses, equally matched and equally as keen. Meanwhile, Sylar had leapt up the staircase and was trying to help his fallen friends on the balcony. Both Hiro and Peter were awake, but pretty beat. Peter's face rested against one of the balcony bars, giving him a full view of the happenings below. In his dazed, headached state, he sort of found an odd sense of enjoyment in it. _'S like watching a movie. I'm not even really here…_

Until, of course, Niki went down. Which ripped him back to reality pretty hella fast. 

"Sylaaaaaaar," he croaked, hardly recognizing the sound of his own voice. "_Sylar!" _

By some miracle, or maybe just twin-tuition, his brother heard his weak cry over the thunder and screams. The amnesiac knelt at his side, cupping Peter's face in his hands.

"What's wrong?"

"Niki," Peter mumbled. His sightline twitched towards the action unfolding on the ground floor, and Sylar's eyes followed. And he was sickened to find that Peter was right.

Niki was sprawled on the floor, wide awake and staring down a gun barrel. Leelee had a pistol hidden on her back the entire time, and only now had the chance to use it. She was the type of woman who liked using her natural abilities, but when things got out of her control, she was forced to result to petty human firearms. Man-made, and made to kill man.

Sylar could hear blood rushing through his ears, semi-deafening him. Niki was trapped, Claire was knocked out, and Adam standing over _her_ at an annoyingly far distance back, as if preparing to strike but not quite getting around to it yet.

He gritted his teeth. _Is __anyone__ going to stay awake for this?_

Like an answer to a prayer, the amnesiac felt something poke him in the leg. He flinched, immediately searching around for the source. A glance down told him it was the hilt of the Kensei sword, which Hiro was fervently handing over.

"Throw it to them," he moaned. Sylar didn't have time to do anything more than wrench the blade from Hiro's grip and lean over the balcony, looking for a safe place to throw a four-hundred year old (and very sharp) artifact.

Right in the middle of his contemplations, Adam Monroe caught his gaze, as well as the shine of steel in Sylar's grasp. The doctor's eyes widened and he gestured towards himself. Sylar considered it for a moment, but it didn't take long to deduce the facts. Adam was definitely their only hope. Hell, he was really the only one still conscious.

Sylar put as much of his body over the railing as he could, dangling the sword over its thirty foot fall. He hesitated, not really sure where to direct it, before he spotted the elegant fountain right below him.

Adam read his mind, pointing keenly into the water. "Drop it!" he hissed, every gesture almost comically big so Sylar could understand the charade.

And so could Peter. The empath couldn't really feel his body, but he continued to watch on in woe, understanding what had to be done. Yeah, his brother was about to taint 1000-year-old holy water with a dirty, bloody sword. If Peter had mobility in his mouth, he would have groaned.

Back to Sylar_. Karma don't strike me now, _he implored, before dropping the sword, sideways, right into a foot of the purest liquid on Earth. Sylar slowed its fall a little with telekinesis, just for Adam's unnecessary safety, but he still let it make a small splash. As the watchmaker intended, the noise caught Leelee's attention, distracting her from her attack on Niki.

Adam was faster though. The blonde man thrust a hand into the water, grabbed the sword and spun around, sending clear droplets cascading upon the ancient marble. And before Leelee even had a chance to blink, the front of the blade shoved right into the center of her chest.

The girl's jaw dropped in shock. A dark stain was blooming from the sword and outward, blacker than blood and much faster. It was almost as if Leelee's veins were occupied with smoke. The screams and thunder and smell of burning hail which had saturated the air suddenly stopped, right as Leelee slid backwards off the blade and crashed onto the polished floor without so much as a gasp.

Up on the balcony, the last thing Peter Petrelli saw before darkness finally claimed him was the sky over the basilica, black clouds dissipating to leave a blanket of marvelous blue once more.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	12. The Four Horsemen

Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

"**The Four Horsemen"**

Peter's throat was parched when he finally awoke, a dim sun shining over his closed eyelids. Every muscle felt atrophied, every bone bent and broken. His use of power had drained him to this state, and Leelee's toxic gas was a push which sent him falling into the canyon of lethargy.

It was all coming back to him now, yes, yes, Vatican City. They'd saved it, right? Not Peter, not him…he was incapacitated, but Sylar, Adam, Niki. They'd killed Leelee. They made the sky blue again. They…

Where were they? Speaking of which, where was _he_? Because the silky material under his back was definitely not the floor of a church.

Peter moaned and forced his swollen eyes open. They filled with tears for a moment from the shock but he briskly rubbed the wetness away, clearing his vision.

A huge canopy-laced king bed in an even more spacious bedroom. Nice crown molding. Egyptian cotton sheets and a feathered mattress pad. Walls painted the perfect shade of beige. What the hell…?

Of all the places Peter expected to be, this Ritz Carlton wannabe was not it.

"Welcome to Cairo, Peter!" Adam Monroe piped, walking through the doorway almost on cue. "Glad to see you're up and at 'em. That's more we can say for some of the others."

Peter immediately sat upright when he realized the gravity of Adam's words, giving himself a blinding headrush. He clutched the side of his forehead and choked out, "What do you mean? Who's hurt?"

"Calm, calm," Adam reproached him, sliding a glass of water into his estranged son's palm. "Drink. Get your vision straight. I'll explain everything while you recover."

Peter wanted to protest, but didn't have the spunk for it at the moment. So he reluctantly obeyed, placing the glass to his lips and letting the cool, although metallic-tasting tap water moisten his chapped throat. He had to admit it was a good suggestion. The water sent energy coursing through his veins like liquid wiring. Or maybe that was just Elle Bishop's power coming back to smirk at him.

After he emptied the glass, feeling much more alert now, he looked upon Adam in expectancy. The blonde man sighed. He sat down next to Peter on the uber-comfortable bed, smoothing one of the comforter's wrinkles with a gentle palm.

They say you can always tell how old someone is by looking at their hands, and even with Adam's regeneration, Peter could see it. There was frailty in his father's bones, in their grip. The skin was stretched over the veins like cellophane, and that's when it finally _sunk in _to Peter that those hands had actually been at work for four centuries. Before, Adam's immortality had been a slight novelty, but watching Monroe's profile, the tired crow's feet that attacked the eyes of his old soul…

Peter wondered what was going on behind those eyes. Adam often mentioned his past, but how well did the blonde man _really _remember his life? Did everything just fade into a blur after a while? Did people's names get mixed with faces in an endless stream of back-stabbing and love affairs, and did it get to a point where Adam simply observed that everyone was exactly the same?

"What are you wondering about?" Adam proposed, coming out of the slump. "I don't know how to begin."

"What time is it?" was the first thing out of Peter's mouth, oddly enough.

Adam chuckled kindly and glanced at his watch. "Seven o' clock, Cairo time. Still Christmas day. Quite a few hours since we got back from Italy. You've been out for a while, Peter."

Peter absorbed the information before continuing. "Okay. How did we get here?"

"Hiro," Adam responded casually. "It took him a few trips; he was sort of 'out of' it, as you saw. I had to give him an emergency injection with my blood. We barely beat the church crowd, who was probably not too happy to see a dead crazy woman lying amongst the pews." He frowned a little, and then shrugged. "No matter. That's a thousand miles away now."

"What's the status on everyone?"

"You're here; I'm with you," Adam began, smirking. "Miss Sanders is fine, but a little startled. Carp is better than ever, thanks to the little shot I gave him. Claire just woke up a few moments before you did, and she's in the main room now."

"And Sylar?"

This time, Adam paused. "Your brother is stable, considering the circumstances."

Without warning, Peter grabbed his father's shoulder in an iron grip and met Adam eye-to-eye. A fierce black challenging an icy blue. "What do you mean _the circumstances_?_"_

The first thing that Peter thought of was splinching. That perhaps Sylar had left something behind in the teleportation. In fact, teleportation in general was bad for his brother, so if Sylar was hurt or worse…

"Take a deep breath," Adam insisted, shrugging his son's hand off. "Sylar will be fine. He's just resting now; recovering from the trip. I chose not to give him my blood. I know for a fact that if he gets overdosed, his body will reject it. He's already had one shot of it today. We don't want him becoming immune." He quirked an eyebrow and wryly added, "Moreover. Do I look like the American Red Cross?"

Peter relaxed against the pillows. Sylar was okay. Going to be okay. To quote Adam, _stable considering the circumstances. _

"Alright," Peter nodded. "Just tell him to sit upright and drink lots of water. And walk around a little too, if he can, so he doesn't become sluggish."

"You've dealt with this before?" Adam questioned, engrossed.

"Yeah. A couple times," Peter responded quietly. Then, at the very base of his memory like a tiny spark inside the Big Bang he recalled, "I was a nurse once, too."

"Nurse Peter," Adam smiled. "Well, that makes you more of a medical professional than I. Between you and me, I'm not a 'real' doctor."

"I kind of figured that," Peter smiled back. "I don't think they offer Regeneration 101 at medical school."

"Hmm. I should go teach that. Or maybe open a whole school for mutants. Is that too-."

"Professor X?" Peter finished. "Yeah, way too much."

"Alas." Monroe stood from the bed, brushing imaginary dirt off of his slacks. "Is there anything else you'd like me to brief you on?"

Peter screwed up his mouth in contemplation, before coyly inquiring, "Where _exactly _are we in Cairo? What is this place?"

Adam took that opportunity to flash his perfectly straight teeth. Peter briefly wondered if he'd had braces decades ago, or if the regeneration just naturally made them that way.

"The penthouse suite of The Hotel Isis. Quite a palace isn't it?"

Peter gestured around him. "Uh, yeah. Why so fancy?"

As Adam headed towards the door, he called chipperly over his shoulder, "Because if you're going to save the world, you might as well do it in style!"

xxx

Claire had no idea what she was watching. She supposed it was some sort of Egyptian soap opera, but not a word of it was understandable. It didn't matter much. No TV show could entertain her now. No book, no movie, nothing so simple or man-made. Not even the touch of a lover. She was in a depressed mood, even by her current standards. Most of it had to do with the chat she'd just had with Adam, but partly the fight at the Vatican was bothering her. She'd been beating up Leelee pretty well, but one false move had knocked her out. All because she'd given that bitch a _chance. _

Sometimes she regretted being one of the good guys, because it gave her weaknesses like _empathy. _Like _hesitation. _Was that comforting to know, or was that irritating? To realize that despite her hardship, despite what she was going through, she was still a good person at heart? Was that a bad thing?

"His wife slept with the gardener?" droned voice from behind her. "Ouch."

Claire glanced over her shoulder and saw Peter standing beside the couch, head cocked as he examined the B-rated drama unfolding onscreen. The blonde girl peered up at him, puzzled.

"You can understand them?"

"Gift of languages," he explained rather convincingly. "I saved a kid with it a few years ago."

"Oh," Claire muttered back, eyes glued to the television once more. Peter bit his lip and sat next to her on the couch, far away so they weren't touching. He rubbed his hands together nervously.

"That was…that's not really true," he awkwardly came clean. "I really have no idea what they're saying."

"Oh," she repeated, pounding another nail into his chest. If she _insulted _him he'd probably feel better off. But this lack of talk, this lack of emotion…wasn't HE supposed to be the damned one? Wasn't HE the one without a soul?

Peter swallowed and faintly asked, "Are you alright?"

_Not alright. Just okay. _"Sure." Her eyes finally fell from the screen, but they still wouldn't pan over to him. No reason to be mad though. No reason to be a snob. Peter hadn't done anything to her. He was trying to be concerned, or at least _act _concerned, because he knew that's how he _should _act. Peter might have had an empty heart, but his brain was alive and ticking. He knew, intelligently, how to treat her in a situation like this.

"I was talking to Adam a while ago," she eventually revealed. Claire could see Peter's nose wrinkle in distaste, which really didn't make much sense. She _knew _he liked his father…sort of. But whenever Adam had anything to do with her…

Claire internally rolled her eyes. She could tell what this was about; any woman would. It was simply odd though, considering Peter's lack of…well…love. This could only be the nature of the male beast. Peter couldn't feel love or compassion, but he _could _feel jealously. Even against a man he was growing pretty fond of otherwise.

He did manage to compose himself into civility. "What about?"

Claire moistened her lips. "Just his life. He's sort of interesting, you know?" _A lot more interesting than this stupid soap opera_. "All the stuff you read about in history books…he was there."

Peter's face softened with the recollection of Adam's 'Gaudi' story. "Yeah. He is."

"It's kinda scary though," Claire confessed. She was finally looking at him now, staring him straight in the face. Peter didn't pull away. He met her gaze with equal burn, letting her stab straight into his non-existent soul. Claire's voice cracked, but she did not cry like usual. Her eyes didn't even well with tears. Other than her hushed tone, her face and body remained still, balancing carefully on the ledge of time as if she was about to fall off.

"That's gonna be us, isn't it?"

Peter didn't look away, but he didn't answer either. He didn't have an answer. The likely truth was scary, yes. But another possible truth, the possibility that Claire would live forever and Peter's empathy would let him die…he knew in his mind that such was far more terrifying.

"I hope it's us," he mumbled, lightly placing his hand on her wrist. It wasn't very tender; Peter's touch felt mechanical. Yet Claire appreciated the intent. "If I have to live forever, I at least want you with me."

Claire smiled at him then, one of the few times she'd done so since December 23rd. All so that, for a moment, they could let themselves be fooled. Fooled into believing they were still epically in love and not a single thing had changed. And as the plotless Egyptian soap ran on B-roll behind them, they held on to that first spark of true mutual compassion like a suffocating flame.

xxx

It was late in the Egyptian evening before Sylar emerged from his bedroom, the larger chamber of the suite. The penthouse had two in total- one with a king bed, and one with two full beds. The living room had a pull-out couch. Luxury here wasn't equivalent to what a penthouse in the States would get you, but no one had any complaints. They were fortunate just to have soft mattresses after such a long day.

Sylar slumped down into a patchworked recliner, skull sinking tiredly into the head cushion. Niki was at his side instantly, sitting on the armrest, holding his shoulders in comfort. He gratefully leaned into her touch, a sigh escaping two chapped lips. For a man in his situation, he was doing pretty well, even if his skin was still whiter than the sheets Peter'd woken up on.

"Hate to break up the reunion with a migraine, friends, but I think it's about time we discuss what occurred today," Adam declared, standing tall and towering in the middle of the living area. His brow was furrowed tightly, as it always did when he was concentrating on something.

His comrades looked more than unamused. It was late, they were tired, but deep down they all knew that Adam was right. As usual.

"I'll start," Niki said flatly. "What the hell is happening to the world?"

There was hum of agreement, and Adam nodded along with them. He paced the floor, thumb tapping his lips in musing.

"That's a wonderful question, Niki. I've been thinking the same thing. I've come up with a pretty evident theory. Obvious, but dubious."

Peter scoffed halfheartedly. "Adam, c'mon. I think anything's possible nowadays."

"Except for aliens," Sylar softly said, still managing a smile.

Peter smiled back at his drained brother and joked, "You never know."

"Actually, that does about meet the craziness of this idea of the 'X-Files' scale," Adam admitted. "See, all these plagues….rivers of blood, flying locusts, burning hail…they all seem rather Biblical, don't you think? Seven cities, seven plagues, four enemies. It looks a lot like Revelations."

Sylar looked towards his father without conviction. "What now? You think Leelee was the _anti-Christ?_"

"More like Lucifer's bitch, I'd say. One of Lucifer's _four _bitches, in fact." Adam pulled an item out of his pocket and held it up. It was the tiara hair clip that had been perched on Leelee's head. He'd plucked it off the body before they escaped to Cairo. "In addition to a bow tattoo on her neck, which is very emblematic as is, I found this on Leelee's head. Do you know what it is?"

A crown. Clearly. But when no one actually replied, Adam continued his explanation with, "It's a diadem. Just like the one Pestilence is supposed to wear."

Claire blinked at him in disbelief. "You mean Pestilence like…the horseman?"

Sylar and Hiro, both non-religious, exchanged bewildered glances. They looked towards Peter, their resident choir boy, for explanation. The empath scratched his neck, also a bit surprised at Adam's speculation.

"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, called Death, Pestilence, Famine, and War. They're mentioned in Revelations, which is the last book of the Christian bible. They're the ones who're gonna 'kick off' the end of days." He shook his head, now looking at Adam. "But they're not _real. _They're symbolic. I don't think there's _literally _supposed to be four people who cause those types of plagues, right?"

"Supposedly symbolic," Adam replied wisely. "But what we've seen with Orson and Leelee was not ordinary or human. I know we all have abilities, but there are _rules _with what we can do. Everything about them is completely upside down."

"But there's only three of them." Claire nodded in sync with Peter. "Leelee and Orson line up, but that guy here in Egypt…how does a meteor affect famine or war? And there is no fourth guy that we could see in the paintings."

"Now wait just a second," Adam halted the debunking of his theory. "A meteor _would _cause a mass famine, especially here. The Nile River floods yearly, which helps the crops. If a meteor struck and messed that whole system up, everyone this side of the Sahara could have trouble finding food."

"Plus, remember that last painting?" Niki blurted. "Russia. And there's gonna be a battle there. _War._"

"Oh my God…" Claire breathed, covering her mouth with a dainty hand. "This can't be real. Not yet, anyway."

Peter was silent, clearly working out the puzzle pieces in his mind via Sylar's intuitive aptitude and his own intelligence. But while the others were mulling it over, Sylar was shaking his head and beginning to scoff.

"You all can't be serious," Sylar chuckled. "There's no such thing as 'religious' Armageddon."

"Remember San Francisco and _then_ tell me there's no such thing," Peter harped back at him.

Sylar was quick with a comeback. "But how do we _really _know the bay was full of real blood? It could be a heavy deposit of red clay, or it could have been Leelee working her power. Orson and Leelee are not some kind of demonic beings. In fact, this whole situation is probably the result of four radical mutants with powers _similar _to the mythical Horsemen, who have teamed up and are trying to spread terror and paranoia."

"Wait, though," Claire interrupted. She was the only one who hadn't quite taken a side yet. "Sylar might be right. Wasn't Leelee killed by Hiro's sword? If that's the case, then how could she be a horseman? Wouldn't they be immortal?"

"Yeah," Niki confirmed. "Earlier on, I punched her enough to draw blood. She recovered though. She could heal. We all put a pretty big beating on her, but she always got back up."

"So could she heal or not?" Hiro asked impatiently.

"You're forgetting something though," Adam replied, rapid-fire. He was on his feet now, brimming with energy. "There was something about that sword which all other injuries did _not _have."

The group glanced from one another, bewildered. All except for Peter, who was staring straight at the floor in misery. Of course it would be him. He was the only one who'd realized it, the only one who'd realized the _significance _of it.

"That fountain," he croaked, earning a pat on the shoulder by Adam. "Sylar threw the sword into the fountain before Adam grabbed it."

"Exactly!" the doctor exclaimed. "The sword was slicked in _holy water! _That's why it killed her!"

"This can't be possible." Niki brushed her hair off her forehead.

"What other explanation is there?" Adam's shoulders slumped dramatically, soulful eyes presenting their condolences to all his comrades thought they knew. "If anyone else has a more laudable theory, I'd be happy to hear it."

Naturally, no one spoke up. They all _wanted _to. They all wanted to say it wasn't so, to deny Monroe's hypothesis, to cast away the idea that perhaps this apocalypse was bigger than they were. Peter had joked around earlier about how God wasn't cutting them a break, how this was the _real _Armageddon. But never in his wildest imagination had he thought his jest to be so accurate.

Their powers defied human law, but that was science. Evolution. Natural selection. There was an explanation to why and how they did what they did. This, though…horsemen and bays of blood, and skies that go black at the snap of a idol's fingers…was it even worth _trying _to stop? If the fates were to tilt the Earth upside down, could six people really fix it?

Could they actually shatter the hand of destiny?

"At least we know what kills them_," _Peter said quietly. "If Adam's right and it's the holy water, I guess we can slick weapons with it, right? It might give us an edge."

Adam nodded. "Good idea, Peter. The sword should still be good for that. But we all need to be armed. I remember wanting nothing more than a good gun while we were in the Vatican."

"Ditto," Niki muttered, along with Claire. Peter looked to his feet but remained silent. He'd always been the one who hated firearms. He'd been shot with enough of them to know that it hurt like hell.

"Bullets will do it," Sylar put in. "They're quick, long-range, disposable. Plus, you can slick a lot at once."

"I've got quite a nice arms closet, myself," Monroe offered. "If dear Hiro Nakamura would take me back to San Francisco, I could bring them all right here."

He beamed towards his friend, the Carp. Hiro shifted a little in his seat, grip tightening on his katana. Still, he nodded in acceptance of the plan after assessing it. There was no way Adam could escape run away from them. In fact, Hiro could do the opposite- leave Adam in Frisco and come back to Cairo alone…

…but no, now was not the time for trivial payback. Adam was a smart man, and an important part of their group. And, of course, not a wise choice to be enemies with.

"I'll take ammo to a fountain," Peter said abruptly. "Not the Vatican; that'll be guarded. Maybe St. Augustine. I dunno. I'll look it up and get it done in the morning."

"The morning sounds good," Niki murmured. "I don't know about you, but I think we should call it a day."

"Is it _still _Christmas?" Sylar asked incredulously, looking at the date on his watch. _12-25. _He groaned. "It feels like it's been days."

Indeed. He and Peter both could hardly believe their walk by the bay had been a mere fifteen hours ago, as well as Peter's brush with Elle Bishop and Adam's splicing of a finger. To say it had been a long fourteen hourswas a gross understatement.

And unfortunately for them, this was only the beginning.

xxx

After some unenthusiastic and altogether passive discussion about sleeping arrangements, Niki and Sylar ended up in the king, Peter and Claire were to share the pair of full-sized beds in the big room, while Hiro and Adam split the couches in the living area.

For the second night in a row, Peter and Claire shared a room. At least they were in separate spaces this time, which was a bit more comfortable emotionally and physically.

In Peter's view, awkwardness didn't really matter at this point. He was mostly afraid that his nightmare would strike again. The one he'd lost hours of precious sleep over the night before. The one where he killed those he was supposed to love. Everyone he remembered loving.

But the more he chewed over it, as it had stuck with him all day, blinking into his thoughts in his mind's down time…oh, the more terrifying it became. Because that was the kicker- _he didn't love them anymore. _He had no desire to kill them, but what if something changed? What if he was manipulated or they betrayed him? What if he had to sacrifice one of his so-called friends for the good of mankind? He would _logically _take their life without a thought. That would make sense. One life for six billion.

The next week lay in shadows, and was made even darker by the shadow Peter no longer had. Without a soul, he had no sense of right or wrong anymore. There was no fulcrum of purity or angel on his shoulder. All he had was human judgment, and the human mind is vastly flawed. If he couldn't even trust himself, how was he supposed to trust these five others?

A timid knock on their door thankfully ripped him from his fearful thoughts. "Come in."

A familiar, crooked frame slipped through the crack. Sylar gave his best friends a nervous wave, before shutting the door behind him.

"This is odd but, is it alright if I crash in here for the night?" he asked sheepishly. Peter and Claire glanced at one another, not minding at all. If anything, Sylar would make the air _less _thick.

"Sure," his brother said. "What's wrong with the king-size, though? It was pretty comfortable to me." He didn't ask about how Sylar was doing with Niki. Nothing so personal. No, he asked about the _bed. _

The tiny part of him which was still nurse-like and empathetic rolled its eyes.

"It's amazingly comfortable," Sylar nodded. "But it's short.My feet stick off the end."

Claire immediately giggled before covering her mouth self-consciously. Sylar wasn't offended. In fact, he was grinning too, albeit embarrassedly.

"And I figured that Niki would like to have a bed to herself," he added, shrugging. "She's exhausted."

"Ah, you're one of those _sweet _boyfriends, aren't you?" Claire mock drawled, faintly glancing over at Peter. "Wish I knew what that was like."

They all fell silent and the joke fell with them. For just a second, Claire had been caught up in the moment, nostalgia washing over her like the fresh summer sun. And in that moment, she'd forgotten how things really were. The status quo was tilted now, and however much she wanted to pretend that she, Peter, and Sylar were still the 'golden trio,' that same status quo would not let her fantasies stay afloat.

Peter cleared his throat. "Uh…where do you want to sleep, Sylar?"

"I'll take the floor. I don't care."

His brother very nearly smirked, recovering from Claire's half-acidic remark. "You could sleep up here with me, you know."

"No, I'm definitely taking the floor, thanks." Sylar instantly repeated, already grabbing linins from the closet and piling them onto the richly designed carpet.

Peter cast a shy look over at Claire, smiling, forgiving her for her earlier and out-of-place statement.

"As you wish."

xxx

Palace Square is a really beautiful place, even covered in blood. Tall spires, perfect symmetry, that grand statue in the middle…and don't forget the majestic Winter Palace behind the big arch, where the Romanovs and several other families of Russian importance used to reside.

Peter doesn't have time to admire the architecture though, not for more than a couple seconds between killings. He's not on the outskirts anymore- he's starting in the field, slashing away from the very beginning. No one he knows, though. All strangers.

Well, not exactly. He knocked out Niki Sanders a few minutes ago, but eh…they were never _best _friends.

A dull roar envelopes him, along with the warm blood running down his back in contrast to the freezing wind. He's been hit a couple times too- stray bullets, a burst of telekinesis here and there. But it all heals up. He's pretty sure none of the scarlet that stains his skin and clothes is actually his own. Pretty sure. It really makes no difference.

The sword in his hand is, like last time, Hiro Nakamura's. The samurai himself is nowhere to be seen. Peter spies Elle though, pretty blonde Elle Bishop on the other side of the square. She catches his eye and flashes a smile of white teeth that blend in with the snow before throwing a hand forward, catching him a hundred meters away with a zap of electricity. It hits him on the shoulder, but it's not strong enough to knock him down, and he somewhat wonders whether she's truly attempting to hurt him or if she's just toying once again.

He doesn't stick around long enough to find out. He does an about-face and runs in the other direction, sword flailing around like a windmill again. It feels natural in his hands, all the grooves fitting into the crevices of his palm. Screams are all around and he gets hit but keeps on running, because hell, it'll heal. It'll all get better once this is over.

_All _of it will be better.

Claire Bennet is waiting for him unflinchingly at the end of the line, the line of his victims, the end of the field of dead he is about to step over. The blonde is almost unnoticeable bundled in so many clothes, her flaxen hair blending in with the snow. But the dark sky is a stark background and she's like a pale ghost falling from space, getting bigger and bigger the closer Peter comes.

He yells, slamming someone aside who gets in his way. Everything is moving in slow motion, but he can't tell what's actually shifted and what's purely in his imagination. All he knows is that he makes it to Claire before he even registers he's there, two feet in front of her, this angel waiting in hell.

He does not hesitate with her. He never does with anyone, and she's no different. She's not _special, _not like he thought she was. So that's why, before Claire can so much as raise the frozen metal pistol in her hand, Peter thrusts into her with one slick jab of Hiro's sword.

The weapon is buried in her gut, all the way up to the hilt, and Peter sees the shining glint of blood-dripped steel coming out of her back. He grins and looks down at her face, meeting her eye to eye. Will this kill her? Will it not? Oh well. It's all for sport anyway at this point. If this snowy world ignites, it really doesn't matter if they're the last ones standing.

Her eyes manage to disturb him though. Something in those loathsome grey-green eyes, the absolute _disgust _that seeps out of them slithers its way into his black heart. That the rare gem which makes his smirk disappear with a gust of the wind.

"What's wrong, Claire?" he asks, giving the blade a little _twist _in her stomach_. _He sort of intended to sound tender, like he could in the glory days, but the voice comes out low and deceitful.

She grunts with pain but her face doesn't show it. No, her skin is raw with cold, just as her eyes are raw with hate.

"You're not who I thought you were," she spits, literally _spits _onto his black boots. He tilts his head, fascinated and momentarily distracted. The shoes look even darker against the ivory frost.

Then he remembers who's suffering on his sword and he laughs, starting to scare himself now. _This isn't me…this can't be me…I can't be doing this…_ But warmth, a fire inside of him from the adrenaline pain-dealing evokes…that explodes in his chest and he's helpless to soulful thought anymore.

"Nobody is," Peter hisses before yanking the sword out, letting Claire plummet bleeding and helpless onto an endless abyss of Russian ice.

xxx

"PETER!!"

Shaking, violent shaking. The pillow hit his head over and over again, reminding him of that piece of glass which Sylar had put there and Claire had removed.

"Peter, WAKE UP!!"

The smell of burning crept into his nostrils; burning clothes, burning flesh, burning everything. The complete opposite of his dream, which had been so, so cold. He was straddling the fence between them now, between fire and ice. His feet were still planted in the snow, but truth be told, he was feeling pretty hot in his torso. Fiery hot. Boilingly hot.

Radioactively hot.

A rough smack on his face finally pulled him out of slumberland all the way. "Claire, get the others! Grab some water and some ice!"

Some fuzzy part of Peter's brain which produced _logic _told him that it must have been Sylar hovering over (and manhandling) him. Because he was sleeping in the same room as Sylar and Claire, and if this was a man and Claire was going to get ice and Sylar…radiation…Election Day…

Peter let out a holler and swung out his arm, mistakenly pushing his brother off of him. Sylar yelped before he even hit the floor. God, his twin's skin had felt so _icy, _and his clothes had felt so…so…brittle?

Now thoroughly confused, Peter chose to open his eyes and see what all the commotion was about. And what crashed into his curiosity was a shitload of radiation and a very anxious-looking amnesiac.

From the top of his shaggy hair to the tips of his toes, Peter Petrelli throbbed outwardly with nuclear fire. It was like Kirby Plaza all over again- his hands glowing more orange than the sun itself, little licks of flame whipping out and poisoning everything around them. For a brief moment he thought: _It wasn't Leelee. I've always been the real Pollution. _

Which reminded him of why he was like this in the first place.

His dream. Oh God, the _dream_. It was all coming back to him now. Russia, the bitter chill and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The blood of his friends. His heart bursting with gleeful rage and malevolence as he hacked away…

Peter screamed at the memory, and at the pain igniting his every cell. His back arched off what was left of his bed, off the charred remains of his sheets. He could spot Sylar through the orange glow, looking fine and healthy other than the roasted rags sticking to his skin where pajamas used to be. That's right; Sylar was radioactive too. He was immune.

And Claire…Claire was there…but she could heal. She was okay.

"Peter, calm down!" Sylar demanded, sternness sounding unusual on his soft-spoken voice. He reached through the field of flames and grabbed his twin by the shoulders. "If you don't, this whole place is going to blow. Now _take a deep breath._"

Bedside manner was never one of Sylar's strong suits. His order did hold some force however, because as Peter followed his friend's instructions, the radiation did in fact dim. Slowly but surely, Peter could feel it suck back into his core, warming his chest with tingling heat.

When the empath knew that everything was okay, he felt safe enough to open his eyes again. Sylar's face filled his vision- brows a little burnt and cheeks matte with dust, but grinning in relief all the same.

"What happened?" he gasped, feeling cinders crackling in his throat. Sylar put a hand on his back and helped him sit upright.

"You tell me," the amnesiac grimly replied, peering at his brother in true graveness. Peter stared back with eyes that were possibly more mournful. He _could_ tell Sylar…but he wouldn't. Sylar, and Claire, knew that his dreams had a habit of being precognitive. And he wasn't about to waltz up to his comrades and say "Hey, I think I'm gonna kill you guys in the near future. Cheers."

Not so wise. Especially since when Peter glanced to the doorway, where everyone else now stood. His suspicions stood firm- they was a little less than 'comforting.'

Claire was front and center, covering her chest self-consciously with her hands where the radiation had burnt her clothes off. Her crispy injuries were still healing, even minutes later. Everywhere from her knuckles to her temples, skin knitting back together, sucking the blood back in. She appeared shocked, though at least, and maybe it was Peter's imagination…a little relieved.

He was still sickly reminded of his dream's avatars. His dream's Peter and Claire. The striking blonde woman whom he stabbed with a sword- and who consequently stabbed him back with her brutal gaze.

The others however, from Niki, to Adam, and then to Hiro…Peter didn't care much for their faces. All were unharmed but wore expressions of utter horror that didn't help Peter's confidence. Even Hiro, who was generally faceless, put on his "OMG" front for this occasion.

"I'm okay," Peter said brusquely.

"What was that about?" Claire asked, almost hysterically. Peter glanced from her to his brother. Sylar was benevolently silent, running a hand over his hair. A lump of ash came out of it, raining onto Peter's chest like snow. Like cold, biting, Russian snow.

"Nothing," he answered, face as harsh as the columns of Palace Square. He looked at Sylar right in the eyes and simply said, "Nothing but a bad dream."

xxx

**To be continued…**


	13. Futures

Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

"**Futures"**

Despite Peter's radioactive breakdown the night before, things still went according to plan the next morning. Adam and Hiro left early for San Francisco to pick up Adam's ammo, and were currently off on their third trip out there. Sylar was forced to move to Niki's room after Peter destroyed theirs, as did Claire, who slept on her friends' floor. Peter stayed in the living room with Hiro and Adam, and was the only one still there when he awoke at sunrise.

He sat up, raking a curtain of obnoxiously untamable hair from his face. That was one of many banes that accompanied regeneration- everything, from fingernails to hair, grew twice as fast.

Still, that wasn't nearly as bad as immortality. Even when the concept hadn't quite sunken in yet, the mere thought of living forever almost gave Peter a panic attack.

_Think of something else. _Peter scratched his neck and looked around for any sign of his friends before recalling the plan. Yes, yes, Hiro and Adam were already gone. And when they got back, they expected Peter to have a hearty knowledge of holy water fountains, and a plan for where to go next.

He spied a WiFi-connected laptop on the desk table and telekinetically drew it to him. It was work, but Peter was strangely content. He liked being a man with a responsibility. Sitting around and doing nothing wasn't the job of a hero. Heck, even sidekicks did more than that.

After ten minutes of decent web browsing, he heard the hardwood floor creak on the other side of the room. Not flinching, Peter's gaze rose to see who stood in the divide between the hall and the living space.

"You're not usually up this early." Claire Bennet approached him, looking lovely under the Egyptian dawn. She ruffled the back of her short hair with one hand, rounding the couch to join him at the hotel-provided laptop he was surfing on.

"I'm usually not the computer guy," Peter commented. "Sylar's the one who does all this tech stuff."

Claire checked out the LCD screen. "Wikipedia. I see you're really digging deep," she smirked. The remark was not sharp enough to sting, but Peter did squirm in his seat. "What have you found?"

The man was thankful for something to answer. "I'm researching places to find holy water. It's not exactly the most abundant stuff in the world, plus most of the wells are guarded in some way. I'm pretty sure they're not gonna let me waltz in and start soaking bullets and handguns in their sacred springs."

Claire let out a little titter. "Guns in holy water. Funny."

Peter managed a smile, appreciating the irony too. "There's this one church though, in Spain. I think I can get into it pretty easy, especially on a Thursday morning."

"Oh, wait. Are you sure?" Claire asked, recalling something from that lousy Spanish class she had to take in sophomore year. She hadn't learned a lick of the language, but the cultural stuff had sort of interested her. "Today's the twenty-sixth. In Spain, they have twelve days of celebration after Christmas, starting now and going to January sixth. There's parades and church stuff every day."

_And the wrath of Christmas strikes again, _Peter sardonically thought. _This is __officially __the worst time of year to have a major apocalyptic event. _

"I guess I'll have to stop time." Peter shrugged half-heartedly. "It'll take a lot out of me, but I could do it."

"Are you sure you don't want Hiro to-,"

Peter cut her off with one sharp look. He was damn _sick _of all these people offering to do things he should. Yeah, he was a bit dampened in power by the revival, but he wasn't a helpless rag-doll along for the ride. He _was _capable of helping out, even if the role of true leader had been slyly seized by Adam Monroe.

"No. I need do something." He nearly grinned. "Besides, I'm the _Catholic _one,remember? It's a match made in heaven."

Next, he clicked on one of the minimized tabs, which brought up the Wiki page for the Four Horsemen.

"Look at this now. There's a chart here, see? It lists all the symbols of the Horsemen, and their purposes. Considering what we know, it's pretty eerie."

Claire's sightline dragged to where he was pointing. Indeed there was a chart with four columns. And under 'Pestilence' or 'Pollution,' were the words _white, tiara, _and _bow/arrow. _

"All those things are associated with Leelee," Peter said firmly. "The tiara hair clip, the bow and arrow tattoo, and her white moped. Her_ old_, very environmentally_ un_friendly moped, now that I remember it."

"Wow," Claire breathed, now searching out signs of the other horsemen. "So are we assuming that Orson is Death too?"

"That's a pretty safe bet, yeah."

"What about Famine and War? Who are they?" Claire's hand was on the armrest of the loveseat, her knuckles brushing between his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes briefly and pushed away the pleasant warmth forming in his stomach. No, no, they couldn't give into physical attraction. Not now. It would only make things worse.

"Famine is here in Egypt somewhere. The best assumption is that he's gonna use that meteor to mess with the Nile. His symbol is a scale, like a balance. His color is black. In the painting, he wore sunglasses." Peter made a clicking noise with his tongue, slumping back. "That's all we have to work with."

"That's more than we have on War," Claire reminded him. Peter wasn't sure if she intended to be optimistic or miserable with such a statement. It was a bit of both in one.

But that still made him reflect on his dream yet again. His dream of combat_. _They knew what was to happen in Russia, and Peter wasn't an idiot. One of the symbols of War was a sword, like the blade he had in the dream. War would strike in Palace Square, he would rise up and lead a battle unlike what the world had seen. Again, just like Peter had in his dream.

The mere thought that he could be _that, _that despicable creature…that he could be like Orson and Leelee and Unnamed Sunglasses Guy...it was nauseating. On one hand, it was almost laugh worthy that his imagination could get so carried away. But there was still that glimmer of cruel possibility that he _could _be capable of that…

Something squeezed him, and his eyes shot open. There was suddenly a hand on each of his shoulders, kneading out all the knots.

"_Claire_."

"Shh," she whispered. "You need to relax. You're freaking out about too many things."

"I have stuff to do," he weakly murmured. His actions totally contradicted his excuse though, as he leaned his head back into the softness of her chest, fully allowing her to continue the ministrations.

"See what I mean?" Claire smiled. "You're tenser than Nathan was on Election Day."

"Give me a break," Peter rolled his eyes. He let out a garbled moan when Claire's thumb ran over the back of his neck, massaging out a particularly noticeable kink. "Nathan doesn't have a clue what stress is."

And then, he let himself succumb. Just this once. Just because they were alone, and all she was doing was lightly rubbing away the pain in his shoulders, the weariness that had imbedded himself into his indestructible cells. Nothing too suggestive in that. That is, until he inhaled, face close to her neck, and was overwhelmed with the ultra feminine smell of Claire. Even after sweating and bleeding and fighting the end of the world, Claire still managed to smell amazing.

It was about then, right about when he was losing himself, that Claire's hands began to slip lower than his shoulders. Prickling over his chest, counting every rib, and then approaching the abs…

"Stop." He opened his eyes and shifted, brushing her arms off of him. "Don't…we…please don't."

"Peter," she began feebly, timidly placing her hands lightly back on his shoulders. Peter reluctantly let them stay there, as long as she kept them slack. "I…want you, and I know…I think you feel the same…"

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "I know. You're right, I do," he mumbled back. Her hair brushed against his cheek and he cringed. "But we can't. Not now. It's not _real._"

"What's wrong?" she whispered. It was unstable and insecure, feelings that Peter hated to hear coming out of Claire's mouth. She was strong- even tougher than him most of the time. If _Claire _was falling apart, there was really no hope for him.

"Because it will _change _things," he desperatly answered. "Not now, but later on, when we're back to normal. I don't care about much right now, but that's one thing I will _not _let myself do." He took a deep breath and unstably confessed, "I don't want to know what it's like to be with you and_ not_ love you. It would haunt me for the rest of my life."

Claire took a moment to let his words sink in before drawing her hands safely back to sides. She wasn't exactly sure what to do next.

"Do you wanna talk about last night?" She was biting her lip enough to draw blood, but the thin skin always knitted back together before red could stain her mouth. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but I think everyone's kind of worried."

"About me or about what I'm capable of?" Peter's response sounded a lot sourer than intended, but he let it be. After all, he had a point. Did any of the people he'd slaughtered in his dream _actually _care about him? Or were they only concerned about how much of a danger he was to their own safety?

"Sylar's worried about you. Obviously," Claire dryly added.

"What about you?" Peter asked just for kicks and giggles. He already knew the answer, of course. It was the same response he would give, cause really, even _he _wasn't that worried. Disturbed, but not 'worried.'

"I'm not worried about anything. Or anyone. If we save the world, hurray! If we don't, we all die. Whatever." She wrung her hands, more interested in trying out different latticed patterns with her fingers than the words coming from her mouth. "Everyone's so afraid of dying but it's really not that bad."

"Speak for yourself," Peter scoffed. "Tango with a seven-headed beast, and we'll see how you like it then."

"We both know that didn't really happen," she countered matter-of-factly.

He offered a half-smile. "Not like that, you're right. But Hell was still just as horrific as you can imagine. I was there for twelve hours. Everyone else was there for eternity. For even longer than we'll be alive. I think that's something that normal people have a right to be afraid of."

"You care about _normal _people?"

"I know that I should," Peter answered brusquely. "I might not actually care about the things that we're doing, Claire. But I still intelligently know that it's _right._"

"Maybe," she mumbled back. "But are we supposed to trust that Adam's word is right? If we don't have any sense of good or evil, how do we know if we're not just being fooled?"

Peter's eyes narrowed a little in thought. He was considering asking something, but wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer just yet. Or, at all.

But hell. Why not? "How exactly do you feel about Adam?"

Claire tilted her face towards the ceiling, wondering the same thing.

"I'm not sure. I want to like him," she said sorrowfully. "I want to _trust_ him. He's smart, and I can relate to him a lot. But sometimes…when he looks at me…I feel like he's cutting me open alive. Like I'm on that autopsy table all over again."

"You've been thinking about him a lot," Peter stated bluntly. She couldn't help but nod. Even now he could see right through her, as if she was a freshly washed window on the Empire State Building. It wasn't so much of a sign of their former friendship; Claire was just easy to read.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I? Anyone would if they were in my…I mean, not _seriously_, but…" She was babbling, a very un-Claire characteristic which earned her a raised brow from Peter. Claire narrowed her eyes and composed herself enough to declare, "Yes, I've thought about_…him_ before. Who wouldn't? He's immortal too, and he's…_new._"

Peter's forehead creased with a tinge of disgust. "He's my father, Claire."

"He saved Micah. He keeps saving Sylar." She hesitated. "Back at the Vatican, he kind of saved me too. After Leelee attacked me, he sat next to-,"

"That sounds _really _familiar, you know?" Peter quietly interrupted her, not looking away from the liquid crystal computer screen. "I think we used to save each other once, right? It kind of used to be our _thing. _Remember that?"

"Peter…" she began in that grating _don't be a jackass _voice that he had heard oh-so-many times.

"Forget it," he muttered, closing the lid on the laptop and rising from the couch.

And as she stared upon his brooding profile, the truth dawned on Claire. Oh God, this was so much bigger than _them. _This was some idiotic male power struggle. Adam had waltzed in, made Peter's friends his comrades, made the decisions that _Peter _used to make…

"You're jealous," she realized, gaping in distaste. "He's the leader now and you're not; making all of our decisions, throwing out theories. _God, _Peter, I thought you could be less petty than that."

"It's not just that," he growled back. "I've had _everything _taken from me, Claire! My own soul, my emotions, and even my powers are starting to go, too." Peter viciously rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. His eyes were tightly shut, avoiding her. "I don't want you takenfrom me, too."

"You won't have me," she said frailly. "You just proved it five minutes ago! So what makes me _yours_ to be locked up?"

"You knowit's more complicated then that. When I get my shadow back-"

"And what if you _don't_?" Claire cried in response, equally as wounded. "What if you're stuck like this forever? _What if _you never want to love me, but you still won't let anyone come near me? How the hell do you think that's gonna _work_?"

Peter turned away from her, both hands buried in his hair. "I don't know, okay?! I don't understand _any _of this. But you're just gonna have to trust me on this one, Claire. Give it a chance to get better, at least!"

"But I got over you, Peter," Claire confessed, her steely eyes now brimming with saline. "When I was dead, I got over everyone! Who's to say that _my _feelings will be ever be the same, let alone what happens to you? You've got almost got it easier. Your shadow comes back and bam! - you'll be back to normal. I don't work that way. I don't know if anything will ever be normal inside of me."

Peter opened his mouth to blurt out a rebuke, but was stopped by the clanking sound of dropped ammo. Adam and Hiro materialized back into their Cairo penthouse, ten feet away from the brawling couple.

Adam frowned, cocking his head in curiosity. Peter and Claire faced each other from opposite sides of the room, eyes bloodshot, chests heaving, and cheeks pinkened with rage. The faux doctor moistened his lips.

"Is everything alright here?" he slowly queried.

"Perfect," Claire spat, brushing past all three men and heading out of the room. Adam cast a curt glance over at his son, and Peter fought not to gape.

"Don't look at _me_," he defensively replied.

Adam exhaled in an irritating _do-I-have-to-do-everything-myself?_ way as he picked up their third and final bundle of arms and set them on the table. "Take care of these, will you? While _I _go take care of the girl."

"You stay away from her!" Peter blurted out, pointing a demanding finger at his father. The words were out before he could stop them, and though he meant every syllable right down to his missing soul, Peter would have preferred not to have shouted them so violently.

Or so soon. Sylar needed Adam's blood, and Peter hadn't even thought of his frail brother. The empath mentally cringed. Dammit. There was no way around this.

Adam blinked at his flesh and legacy, almost innocently. Innocently enough to make Peter rapidly backpedal, twisting his declaration into something a little less aggressive.

"Not now," Peter stammered the conclusion, lowering his trembling hand. "Leave her alone for now. Give her some time by herself, okay?"

"That's fine, Peter," Adam slowly answered acceptingly, though his eyes were narrow and sharp, dissecting the true intentions of his son. "No need to get so feisty."

Peter nodded, looking at the floor, and Adam left the room as well. Hiro was still standing though, and Peter caught a glimpse of the samurai's expression. It was inward, thoughtful, inquisitive. Hiro's face was blank as he mulled over all of his own thoughts, shutting Peter out.

Yet Peter didn't need to be a mind reader to understand. _I know, buddy. You told me so._

xxx

Claire had been right about the Twelve Days of Christmas. Spain was alive with celebration and worship, loud cheers of merriment sounding from every inch of the county's soil. Peter had teleported to an alcove by the church he was looking for, avoiding the paths of praying Spaniards. It was difficult; the streets were absolutely lined with people. Women. children, men, old people. The holidays were clearly a big deal over here. Peter did have to amend, however, that he was happy it was Christmas and not Easter. During _la Semana Santa, _it would be five times as packed, and even harder than that to weasel his way into a church.

He shouldered his way inconspicuously past several cheering bystanders and slipped into the house of worship. The sound of a roaring crowd immediately lulled into silence when he closed the heavy wooden door behind him. All was silent within the cathedral, and Peter took a moment to admire the design. He'd traveled more in these past three days than he had in his whole life. Might as well enjoy it.

It might not be there in a few days, after all.

For good measure, he stopped time as he headed up the aisle, towards the very obvious fountain at the front of the room. A Virgin Mary statue hovered over it, palms opened towards the pews. Peter stopped in its wake, recalling long childhood days full of nuns and slaps on the wrist with a ruler. Arthur Petrelli was huge on the whole Catholicism thing and naturally Nathan ate it right up. Politicians have to have _values _and _faith. _

Peter always respected it- he respected _all _religions- but he was never exactly devout. While Arthur and Nathan buried their sins in the confessional, Peter was just a good person to begin with. There was no need for him to confess or conform. He liked doing the right thing and he could see the good in everyone.

Something inside his gut tightened though, seeing this modestly beautiful woman carved into stone. So, just like the days in their 5th Street minster, he brought his hand to his forehead, down to his chest, then over to each shoulder. And for the first time in his life, old one or new, he really meant it.

Then, he vaguely remembered that the last time he'd made such a gesture was not in Catholic school, but to Sophia Linderman. Sarcastically so, right before his shadow, Petey, engulfed the bitch.

The thought of his long-lost mate sunk his smile. He hated to admit it - and if Claire ever found out she'd never let him live it down - but he did sort of _miss _Petey. However, not just because he wanted his soul back and his body returned to equilibrium. No, Petey had been a 'fun' presence. Yes, it sucked having his emotions thrown onto his sleeve for all to see, but Peter always found his quirky shadow to be like his own personal cat- great to vent to when no one else was around.

He could rant on to his shadow for hours, getting all that whining out of his system and Petey would never complain because _he _felt exactly the same way. It was a brilliant infinite circle, since he and Petey were essentially one and the same, but having something to _look at _while talking to himself made it feel a bit less neurotic. Not to mention that Petey was a good gauge of Peter's own sub-conscious, pointing out things that the human sometimes failed to acknowledge.

Simply put, there was no such thing as 'lying to himself' when he used his soul as a shrink. And with his firestorm of confused thoughts fogging his mind about the world, Adam Monroe, Claire, his own morality…God, he could have used a Petey.

Peter knelt by the fountain and a beam of sunlight hit him from the side, pouring in through the grand stained glass windows. He forced himself to ignore the blatant space where his shadow should have been, and vehemently unzipped both of the duffle bags. They were both full to the brim with bullets and extremely heavy to anyone other than Peter or Niki. It had taken Adam and Hiro three trips to carry all this, but they had actual _pistols _on top of that. Peter only needed to take one load in the end.

His mouth tilted into a crafty slash. How exactly was he going to do this? He didn't want to throw the whole bags into the fountain, which would taint the water, and he didn't want to actually _touch _the water for the same reason.

Sylar's ability to see how things work quickly channeled itself through him, working out all the cogwheels, all the possibilities of the situation. He spied a golden pail sitting on the ledge of the fountain, tied into the brick with a thin chain. After a few moments deliberation, Peter deduced that he could use the pail to fill both duffle bags with water, and then carefully pour the water out onto the floor. It was a rather wasteful plan, but at least it would keep the fountain clean.

As Peter went about the meticulous work, he couldn't help but let his mind wander again. Besides Petey, his next biggest worry was his reoccurring nightmare.

Usually, like when he dreamed of blowing up New York, the visions were half-literal, half-symbolic. Everyone who was in his 'explosion dream' was not actually there at Kirby Plaza. In fact some of them, like Isaac and Simone, were already dead when the event transpired. All dialogue exchanged between him and Nathan however, _was _literal. Unfortunately, there was really no way to tell fact from fiction until he could have his way with hindsight. The best thing to do was keep it as a guideline instead of giving himself a migraine trying to dissect every detail.

But was it such of a stretch of the imagination to be concerned? He may have been a second coming of himself but he certainly wasn't the messiah… yet did that rule out the possibility that he was the _opposite?_ That maybe he was reincarnated for the purpose of evil? He was brought back for a reason, that's for sure. The only mystery was whether or not it was to kill the Horsemen, or to join them.

Above all, he simply wondered about the future. Futures, really. There were so many potential outcomes from this point out. If he and Claire went their separate ways or if they got back together…if they saved the world, or if they let it fall into peril…

Peter conjured up the worst case scenario in his mind, and nearly felt chills. A barren world, engulfed by wickedness, where he was at the throne. Claire, Sylar, and everyone else was long gone and forgotten. All he cared about was himself, and his powers, which grew everyday.

He shook himself from the imagery. No matter what uncertainties lay ahead, he would not accept that he'd just _become _the villain. He'd been a fine person for thirty-four years, and there was no reason to change now.

There was no way he'd stand at the top of the world with a smile as he watched it burn.

However, there _was _a way to cure his doubts. According to all their basic theories, holy water was the kryptonite to their enemies- and possibly lethal to him, if his suspicions were correct. It would be so easy just to dip a finger into that fountain, just to _see _what would happen. If nothing occurred, then he was safe. If his skin started to burn off, well…that mean be a problem.

Peter carefully emptied the duffle bags out onto the floor, letting the water be absorbed by the thirsty bricks. The brass-colored bullets sat piled in both bags, soaked but intact. At least, he severely hoped that this whole procedure didn't in fact ruin the gunpowder, and he was assuming that Adam had thought ahead on such a matter.

Once he zipped up both bags and kicked them aside, all squared away, he sat on the lip of the well, rolling up a sleeve as if preparing for an amputation. Peter took in a breath and held it inside his lungs, promising himself not to let it out until his shaking hand was submerged in the purest substance on Earth.

He decided to get it over with fast, like ripping off a bandage. One…two…and…

Putting one-hundred and forty pounds of force behind his fist, he aimed a solid punch towards the crystal clear water.

And then stopped two centimeters above the surface.

Peter let out a defeated yell which did not reverberate off the cathedral ceilings like it was supposed to. Not startling- he knew that when time was stopped like this, sound did not echo.

Nevertheless, he couldn't do it. Couldn't take the plunge because he'd rather live in ignorant bliss. Yes, it would be a relief if nothing happened, which was the most likely outcome anyway. But that little voice in the back of his head couldn't help but muse on that horrible possibility…

_I could be War. _

Peter sighed. He gloomily stood from the fountain and bent over to grab a duffle in each hand, squinting to deftly restart time for the Spaniards.

Before any clergyman could walk through the front doors of the church, Peter took a breath and thought of home, materializing from the European air. However, though his mind aimed for Cairo, his heart's doubts of the future still managed to throb while he blinked through space and time.

xxx

As soon as Peter landed, he knew he'd wound up in the wrong place. First of all, this room was totally different from the Cairo suite. Green wallpaper, nice stairs, lots of electronic devices hanging around. Plus, a quick glimpse out the window, out onto the familiar horizon, revealed that this was New York City.

Only now was he reminded of how much he missed his home town. It had been over three years since he'd moseyed through the Big Apple, seen the Statue of Liberty, let out a chuckle as he passed by Emerald City Night Club in a cab (and alternatively looked downward whenever he passed Kirby Plaza). For a moment, he was tempted to linger and escape for a couple hours, just to breathe the Long Island air again. But with two duffle bags full of bullets which had luckily survived the trip, and muffled voices coming towards him, there was no other option but to duck and cover.

There was a short hallway, a divide between the main foyer where the voices emerged, and the living room where Peter currently resided. He picked up the duffle bags and turned invisible, pressing himself up against one of the darkened hallway walls. A picture frame pressed into the back of his neck, but his heart was thumping too quickly to notice.

Now that he was closer and actually paying attention, he discovered that those voices were familiar. In fact, he would recognize them anywhere, in any time.

Naturally, because one of them was _him. _

_Dammit. I was thinking about the future when I jumped. _

On top of that subliminal train of thought, he also had his broken empathy to deal with. It really wasn't too much of a shock that something had gone wrong. Murphy's Law always seemed to hover right over the heads of Peter and his friends. For now, the only thing he could wonder was: how far _did _he jump?

As if answering his question on cue, the Peter and Claire of his future moseyed into his viewpoint, standing by the stairs and dressed soberly in black. Neither of them looked much different than they did now, except for their hairstyles. Claire's was hacked into a stylish bob, and Peter's could only be described as 'Matthew Broderick hair'. Still, it couldn't be too far off. Maybe five years from now, tops.

Yet, regardless of the year, Peter couldn't help but notice the weariness that lined his future self's face. His words with Claire were kind but hushed, his movements were slow, and his swollen eyes looked like they'd been crying. Not to mention all that black clothing…

Claire reached up and brushed back his hair, and that's when the Peter in the hallway spotted it- a silver-banded and _very _familiar diamond ring on her left hand. The first was Angela Petrelli's engagement ring, the ring which currently resided in past-Peter's left pocket. And as future-Peter reached up to touch his lover's face, a shining eternity band was clear on his own finger as well.

So they were married? Married and living in New York! And on top of that, the sky was blue, the water was clean, and there was absolutely no sign of the catastrophes in the paintings.

_It all works out in the end. _Peter nearly sobbed with relief. _Claire and I get back together. We stop the world from ending. I'm not a monster. It's all going to be okay._

But then…he realized…if everything is fine, then why do we seem so unhappy?

"I think they're here by now," Claire mumbled. She gave her husband a tender kiss on the cheek before going to answer the door. Now Peter the younger was intrigued. He carefully grapevined down the hallway, making studiously sure to avoid being seen by himself. Since he, in the future, probably still had the power of invisibility, past-Peter's use of it would be useless.

"Thanks so much for coming," he could hear Claire saying. There was the sound of muffled clothing as Claire gave their guest a light hug. "We're so glad you're here."

"I couldn't do it without you two," the visitor answered. It was a woman, a very old woman with a fragile, heartwarming voice. He could hear Claire greeting a couple other guests before closing the door, but he was more fascinated with the elderly lady. Luckily, the woman eventually stepped into past-Peter's field of view, and he could see that she was tall but hunched, and had straight white hair that flowed to her waist.

He frowned. Who was this?

Peter was thoroughly confused until a middle-aged man came forward, flanked by a brunette girl with pretty, but slightly peculiar features. The man could have been anyone, but the woman's face was unmistakable.

She looked like _Sylar. _Other than her eyebrows, which were neatly groomed, her face had all the same angles, her eyes gleamed with the same intelligence, and her hair was the same shade of chestnut. There was a pinch of Peter in there too, though. She had Peter's wide lips and oval facial shape, which went all the way back to Emily Freis.

_We have a sister? _he directly surmised, as the younger woman greeted both him and Claire with genuine familiarity. _This is crazy. How many other long-lost relatives have I got out there?_

But as Peter was about to discover, he was wrong. Dead wrong. This woman was not his sister…

"Uncle Peter, oh…how are you doing?"

…she was his niece. Sylar's _daughter_.

From the shadows of the hallway, present-day Peter's eyes widened with shock. Niece? But she must have been at least thirty years old! And if that was the case, then how far in the future...?

And then, like the answer in the back of the book, laid clear for him to see, all the pieces of the puzzle fell in place. The tanned man in his fifties was Micah. The skinny white-haired lady was Niki. It was at least three decades into the future, as opposed to the five years Peter originally suspected.

And while their friends had aged with time, Peter and Claire stayed exactly the same. 

Peter's future avatar embraced his niece, the woman who had just spoken to him. "Melissa. I'm uh…just okay right now."

She pulled back and peered at him with Sylar's face, with his brother's natural expression of sympathy. "I know. Same here," she murmured understandingly, then moved on to hug her _Aunt _Claire.

An even deeper truth dawned on the Peter from the past. Everyone was ultra-forlorn, in mourning. Sylar's whole family was here, clad in the color of the dead, but where was Sylar himself? There could only be one explanation; Peter knew that. Especially considering that _this _far in the future, Sylar would be nearing seventy years old…

Peter numbly slumped down the hallway wall, landing with a soft _thud_ next to his duffle bag. God, no. It couldn't be true. Sylar was not _dead. _He was not going to outlive…oh God.

And clearly, in thirty-five years, that raw fact hadn't gotten any easier. While both Peters had been dwelling in their thoughts, Claire, Micah, and the old woman had stepped outside, leaving Melissa Monroe to speak privately with her uncle.

Peter of the future was reacting just about the same way his past self did. He wiped a hand over his face, masking the inflamed capillaries crosstiching the whites of his eyes. He sniffed and let out a sigh, one sigh of many that had probably escaped his lips in the past few days.

"I've been preparing for this day as long as I can remember," he whispered. "And it's still hurts worse then I ever expected."

"Me too," Melissa desolately agreed, wrapping Peter in another comforting embrace. Peter the younger only then realized how tall Melissa was, for a woman- she spoke exactly eye-to-eye with her young uncle. She clearly inherited the height genes from both Niki and Sylar, if Niki was indeed the mother. This was pretty evident, even though the outrageous thought of '_Sylar and Niki have a __child __together!' _would not stop marqueeing through past-Peter's bewildered brain.

"But," she continued. "At least it wasn't sudden, you know? He was sick for a long time."

"Yeah," future Peter nodded, snuffling and rubbing his bloodshot eyes once again. It was obvious that he'd been doing that a lot- fighting the tears at bay. "I just wish he could have remembered more of his life. He didn't know anything about his childhood."

Melissa smiled and now it was all Niki Sanders shining through, warm and reassuring. Her voice was equally as soothing. "You trust me. Dad loved his life. I sometimes think that he didn't even care about those first few years."

Peter managed to grin through his tears. "Ha, yeah. I did give him a pretty exciting time. He was already going grey before you were born."

The woman was beginning to get weepy as well, but her beam was not tarnished. "I remember when I was kid. Mom would send me off to bed, and then you two would sneak in and keep me up for hours with stories about those adventures you used to have."

Peter from the future was nodding, grinning, reminiscing along with her, while Peter from the past felt a pang in his stomach. A literal pang. As in, he actually keeled over, gripping his side, biting the side of his other hand to keep from making any noise.

He let the grip on his gut go limp as the pain slowly receded. How weird_._ Maybe he'd just developed an ulcer or something and it had healed over. With the stress levels these days, it wouldn't be a shocker.

"C'mon Peter!" called Claire from the front door. "It starts in an hour! We need to get going!"

Melissa nodded and gave her uncle one final pat on the arm before heading off to meet her mother and half-brother out in the complex's hallway. Peter however, had his feet planted into the ground, appearing numb and unmoving. There were whispers, and the sound of a door delicately closing before Claire approached her husband, grey eyes bursting with sympathy.

In the hallway, Peter felt another sting in his chest. He gripped at it, grinding his molars at the pain, but still fought to understand the conversation taking place ten feet in front of him.

"Hey, shh, Peter…"

"I've saved more people than I can even count. I've walked through Hell. I've come back from the dead." He shook his head, tears falling unbridled now. "But_ this_ is the hardest thing I've ever done."

Claire cupped his face, silver rings glinting in the light. She ran her thumbs over his cheekbones, trying to unsuccessfully dam his tears. "It's not easy for any of us. But think about when he had to bury us. Think about how hard that was for him.He understands how this feels and he'd want you to be strong."

Peter of the past was on all fours now, risking being seen but not giving a damn because his chest was constricted and his heart was on fire. He felt like the entire tapestry of his body was being ripped apart and restiched.

"And you remember that no matter what we lose, or what happens," Claire continued, bringing his forehead down to touch hers. "You will always, _always _have me."

Part of him wanted to watch, while the rest of him just wanted this bittersweet nightmare to be over with. He could taste coppery metallic blood on his gums, a good sign that he needed to return home before he was either ripped apart by the jaws of space or caught. Preferably not both at the same time.

It was risky, time-jumping away with two bags of cargo in such a state. Yet Peter had no choice. With every second the pain grew worse, and he was soon curled up in the fetal position in his fight not to start screaming.

Thus, he tightly grit his teeth and willed himself away, just in time to see Claire kiss his future self on the lips. And that sight was what sent one final stab of pain right through his heart.

xxx

A crowd of people, familiar people, were around him, and Peter should have been relieved. And somewhere inside, he was. Yet he was a bit preoccupied with the blinding pain coursing thorough his muscles to really appreciate such faces at the moment.

Peter yelled in agony, curled up on the floor, both arms folded across his stomach. There were hands on his back, surprised voices, voices anchoring him to the here and now of reality. He wasn't even sure if he was solid anymore, or if he had one foot in the present and one in the future. Some straight-talking part of his brain reminded him that he'd felt like this for a while now, not just when he jumped. It didn't have to do with the teleportation. It had to do with…

He groaned louder, now remembering it. The tender glances and caresses between his future self and Claire. The sight made him _miss _her, miss her so bad it was actually causing him this pain. And then his niece, inquisitive Melissa, and Niki, Niki old! And Sylar, oh…

"Sylar!" he cried, not even realizing that he'd said it aloud. It brought his brother to his side immediately, his _real _brother who was _really _beside him and taking him into a cradle of strong arms, flesh and bone, alive, not just a figment of a vision.

Peter still squirmed in pain; eyes glued shut, teeth clenched. This hurt nearly as bad as being tortured with burns by Alice, Sophia Linderman's own shadow creature. Flashes of the past and the future and some things he didn't even recognize played like a hypnotic movie behind his lids.

_The Boston house; his twelfth birthday with Angela Petrelli's rare smile as she brought out the cake; learning to play catch with Nathan when he was a kid; the old house in Hyde Park and Irene, the nanny…_

_Jumping off his apartment building and trying to fly. Meeting Sylar and Claire in one way or another at Homecoming. Glowing profusely at Kirby Plaza._

_Slamming down Sylar's door in the Arizona desert. Claire's smack across his face when she found out that he had shot her. Holding Claire in Sophia's machine, dying in each others arms, that final kiss before both of them were separated by the underworld…_

And then, after another minute of that heart wrenching movie, it stopped.

His whole body went slack with release, and the voices around him hushed. Peter's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He was amazingly still conscious, but taking a while to regain his strength.

"Back, back, give him some room," a firm voice said near his ear. It was Sylar, whom was currently holding him. But then a small hand that was definitely not his brother's entwined with his fingers on the opposite side. Peter dared to crack open an eye.

He saw Claire, gazing at him with an almost childlike interest. Her lips parted shyly when he caught her beside him, but he only squeezed her hand back tighter, not letting her out of his grasp.

Familiar, delightful warmth filled his chest, and he practically let out a sob of relief. Tentatively, as if riding a bike for the first time after several years, he reached up with his other hand and touched Claire's face with bold abandon.

She locked gazes with him, blinking in wonderment. All he could do was grin in return. Because when he looked up, right on the ceiling over Claire's head was Petey. His shadow, his soul, his other half.

And now he was whole once more.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	14. Splinter

Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

"**Splinter" **

Peter awoke from his first uninterrupted night of sleep, which couldn't have come at a better time. Then again, nothing could have tarnished his joy from the night before. To be _normal _again was one huge weight off his splintered shoulders.

Perhaps that's why the nightmares stopped, he hoped. He hadn't loved anyone before, and that apathy conjured such terror in his sleeping mind. But now that his heart was whole, that all his feelings for his friends were alive and intact, he couldn't fathom why he'd dream such terrible things from now on.

The only thing he could wish was that the trend continued. Nightmares of Russian ice were really becoming daunting.

Yawning contentedly, Peter climbed out of bed, smiling a little as he spotted the clear Egyptian sky through his window. No meteor. It was December 27th and they were still safe. No plague. Hopefully, it would stay that way for a while. All the other drastic events prior had quite a distance between them. It would make sense for this one to be the same.

It looked like they were going to be in Cairo for a while.

xxx

On the contrary to Peter's easygoing take on the no-man's-land between plagues, Claire Bennet _hated _waiting. It was like this huge doomsday clock was perched right above her heads, looming over everything she did. She wasn't the type of person who could just _forget _about the impending danger, and let sleeping dogs lie until the situation got better.

She was pacing the living room floor, a half-eaten fruit bar clutched in her hand. Sylar and Niki were cooking a more well-rounded breakfast in their little kitchen, Hiro was sharpening his sword in the corner of the room, and Adam was sitting cross-legged on the floor, not far from where Claire was feverishly padding _back _and _forth._

The immortal looked up from the gun he was loading. Bullets, powder, and four different types of firearms were scattered all around his cramped, long-legged body. He had more guns pointing at him then a thief sneaking into the Royal Tower.

"Troubles, love?" He whistled, returning to his work. His brow furrowed almost humorously as he tried to shove a particularly stubborn slug into the chamber of his shotgun.

Claire stopped her pacing and sighed, slumping onto one of the couch cushions. She was close enough to Adam to touch him, but both kept their hands tightly to themselves.

"I hate knowing something's going to happen," she admitted. "I wish I knew _when._"

Adam shrugged. "Could be today. Could be in two months."

Claire snorted in amazed disbelief. "How can you be so patient?"

He gave her a small wink. "Get to be my age and that particular virtue comes naturally."

She humored him with a small smile and watched him go back to loading. They sat there in comfortable silence for a good few minutes, with Claire occasionally commenting that _you're putting it in backwards _or _that bullet doesn't go with that gun. _Eventually, Adam got to the point where he set his handiwork down and stared at her with playful intrigue.

"Perhaps you should do this for me," he half-suggested. "How does a pretty girl like you know so much about ammunition?"

She arched her eyebrow. "Four-hundred years and you've never heard of women's rights?" she asked, prompting Adam to grin sheepishly. "How is it that you _own _all this and you don't know how it works?"

Adam shrugged simply. "I always was a sword person." Which earned him a quick and fleeting glance from Hiro, albeit an emotionless one.

Claire continued on to explain, more seriously, "I was in the FBI for a couple years. That's how I know."

"Interesting," Adam replied, sounding genuinely…well…interested. "No one ever told me about your past as an arse clouting cop."

"Ha. But speaking of ass-kicking, have you seen Peter?" she suddenly asked. "I need to talk to him."

Adam's nose wrinkled, but he did not answer. Hiro, on the other hand, was happy to offer information.

"He went to the gym," the samurai responded brightly. "He seemed really content."

"He picked a great time to work on his quads," she rolled her eyes. Surprisingly, Adam stuck up for his estranged and broody son.

"Does it look like we've got anything better to do?" he muttered, sounding even more dryly English than usual. "Give the boy some credit on finding a valuable distraction."

Claire didn't argue. She'd done enough bickering in the last couple days to last her for a while, and quite frankly, she just wanted to get _along _with someone for once.

Perhaps that someone would be Peter. But as she picked herself up off the couch and headed out the hotel room's door, she _really _doubted it.

xxx

Orson Huxley was not furious by nature. In fact, he was a rather calm, enigmatic, and crafty personality on a normal day. It's what made his perspective on death so blithe. But as he stormed into his so-called comrade's grimy apartment, he could barely see straight with rage.

There was a man-shaped silhouette masked in the corner who didn't even flinch when he heard Orson haphazardly enter the room.

"Show me your face. At least respect me enough to give me that," Orson breathed heatedly. And then, in a less stable tone, he revealed, "Please. I need your help."

With that uncharacteristic outburst, the man emerged from the shadows without protest.

The word 'man' was pretty generous though. Edmund O'Connell hardly resembled a man. He was young and thin. Anorexic thin. Deathly emaciated thin. And in addition to the black clothes which sagged off his frame like an elephant's skin, his skin was as white as clean linen. It was striking with his hair, which naturally shone as an orange-tinted red.

What pulled together his whole image was a pair of sunglasses, ultra-dark and forever on his face. The only time Edmund ever removed them was when he slept or showered. Even though Orson knew the reason why his comrade covered his eyes, Edmund still kept his Ray-bans perched firmly on his nose.

"You're not normally an angry man, Orson," Edmund noted, eyes narrowing behind his shades. His voice was gruff despite his scrawny size and a light Irish accent also blanketed his inflection. Of course, Edmund was not actually Irish just like Orson was not actually American, but he'd always liked the green isle. Plus, one of the most famous things in Ireland's history was a great potato famine. What could be more fitting?

"What's got your knickers in a twist, Reaper?"

"Don't act so naïve," Orson spat, rounding on his ally. "You know what they've done. You sensed it just like I did."

"I see. Leelee Lang, eh?" the other man realized, slowly nodding his head. He lowered himself into a matte black recliner. The lack of contrast almost made him seem like a pale floating head amongst the darkness, his bright orange hair the only beacon in the night. "You know, when they said Death and Pestilence go hand-in-hand, I didn't think they meant it _literally."_

"This had nothing to do with our superiors. We took to each other. It just _happened,"_ Orson snapped, raking his tapered fingers through a sleek mop of obsidian hair. Then, he whipped around and headed towards Edmund's desk, before viciously swinging a hand and knocking everything to the floor. "And now she's _gone. _Those…those _mutants _killed her! It was supposed to be impossible, but they beat our defenses…"

"Calm yourself," Edmund firmly bellowed, now on his feet. He towered over Orson, like a thin flagpole swaying in the wind. "You knew you weren't supposed to get attached."

Orson scoffed bitterly. "How is that an appropriate rule? We were told that we can't die!"

"Forget the immortality- she clouded your judgment. It's what our enemies would want. You lose your focus and everything we've worked for will burn like a tower of wheat."

"What an appropriate analogy for_ you_," Orson snarked, before slumping into submission. "But that's why I need you, Edmund. You need to start your plague early. Immediately, in fact. "

Edmund's brows lowered beneath his sunglasses, which told Orson that he was frowning _very _deeply.

"That wasn't part of the job description. I have my own duties to deal with, as do you."

"I won't sit around and wait for you to act," Orson snarled, slender hands curled into fists. "I need to unleash a hell upon them as strong and as fast as my powers will allow. But I can't do that unless you give the dominos a push."

"You will stick to the plan!" Edmund did not hesitate to grab his smaller comrade by the throat. His grip was weak and frail, but Orson was still listening. "Don't let your petty love affair get in the way of what we were told to do."

He tightened his clench and Orson winced, but still managed to persevere.

"Please, Edmund," Orson implored. His baby-blue eyes appeared soft, though a rage boiled beneath them. "I loved her. I know I wasn't supposed to, but it's too late now. And despite my affection, she was still your ally, too." He hesitated before quietly adding, "Plus, since they went after her…you're probably next. You need to act before they can stop you."

Edmund's face was frozen. Or perhaps it was just that black shield preventing Orson from seeing the cogwheels working behind his eyes.

"Fine. You go to Osaka. You do what you're supposed to- nothing more than that. And then you head to Russia, where all of this will finally end."

"As for you?" Orson finally managed to shove the redhead off of him and then proceeded to angrily rub at the cherry marks left on his neck.

Edmund turned away from his grim acquaintance to pull the strings on his window treatments. The heavy scarlet material slowly swept back, revealing a crystal-clear morning. The Egyptian sun bathed both men in natural light.

"I'll be here to smile upon the chaos," Edmund whispered, "as the stars pierce the sky."

xxx

Despite the couture of the rest of the hotel, the fitness center didn't exactly shine with glamour. In fact, Claire was reminded of one of those Lower East Side boxing movies, where the protagonist basically trains in the basement of a meat packing factory to make it big.

She made it to the gym through a detour on the ground floor. It was a bit off the beaten path, but still aboveground so the sunlight could get in. Considering that there were no actual lamps on the ceiling, windows were pretty much a necessity.

Claire loitered in the wooden door frame, studying Peter as he did one of the more unconventional work outs she'd ever witnessed. Rather than using the tattered punching bags lining the walls, Peter was using his own shadow to box against. It was quite a sight- a human and his dark doppelganger entwined in a battle of flying fists. And because Peter and his shadow shared one mind, the fight was so precise that it nearly looked choreographed.

"He's back?" she abruptly asked, nodding a little towards the shadow. "Petey? Since last night?"

The empath smoothly turned around, his face immediately lighting up when he spotted Claire in the doorway. An undeniable glow throbbed off his skin, completely clean and unradioactive. The utter opposite of what his visions had provoked two nights before.

Claire knew nothing of the dreams, but she did notice his shining smile. The deepness of it made her gut tighten, and seeing Petey slithering around she _knew _what must have happened. She knew what was now true about her relationship with Peter. How things had changed in the blink of an eye.

But she didn't dare say it aloud.

"Interesting technique you've got there," she said casually, taking a few tentative steps into the gym.

"He's fun, now that I've have a use for him," Peter grinned, glimpsing his rouge shadow in his peripheral vision. It had its arms crossed as it leaned against the wall, attempting cockiness but only appearing pouty.

Claire nodded, and quietly asked for conversational purposes, "What time did you come down here?"

"About dawn." Peter shrugged a little, and then chewed on his bottom lip as the awkwardness of their silence grew on him. Claire's eyes were flitting around, landing on everything in the room except for him. Small talk had never been a strong point for either of them, despite their connections to the fast-tongued Petrelli family.

Peter eventually cleared his throat, knowing what had to be said. But damn; he wasn't good at apologies. Not since he manifested.

"Hey..." he began, sounding more serious now despite his nerves. "I'm sorry about fighting with you yesterday morning. I was being a jerk. I didn't mean to upset you."

She stayed silent for a few thick moments and Peter wondered if he'd possibly upset her more. But after practically torturing him with anticipation, Claire finally responded, in a better way than he could have hoped.

"It wasn't your fault," she said, and he could tell her apology was genuine. "And for the record, me and Adam…" She scoffed, rolling her eyes a little. "There is no _me and Adam. _There never will be."

Peter blinked. "But you said you'd considered it," he quietly reminded her.

The blonde sighed, shoulders slumping, sorrowful eyes penetrating his. It almost made Peter feel physical pain. "I can't trust him, Peter. I want to, but I can't. And if I can't put my life in his hands then…then I can't feel a thing for him. Even if I _could _feel anything, as it is."

Petrelli had to smile a little at her white knight fantasy, internally wondering when exactly this _I have to trust him _rule became law for who she was attracted to. A certain Homecoming game came to mind as a very plausible nominee.

He felt something float by his ankle, a familiar and much-missed sensation that could only be one thing. Petey was brushing past him, standing upright to match his height, and looking down upon Claire in what seemed to be acceptance.

The shadow pressed a gentle, feathery-feeling kiss against her forehead, before slinking back to its host. Peter smiled softly, eyeing the silhouette in his peripheral vision.

"I guess that's fine enough for us."

Claire was smiling a little to herself at an inside joke that Peter didn't get. " I still think that's cool, by the way. What you did with him, earlier. Even though…"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah? Even though what?"

"To be honest," she said with what seemed like jest. "Your technique sucks."

Peter scoffed good-naturedly, and he could feel his shadow perking up in defense. "How would _you _know?"

"I've still got my FBI badge, if you happen to remember. I was even helping Adam load guns before I came here. He doubted me, too. Seems like a trend today."

"I don't doubt that you're lethal," Peter admitted. Then, the lopsided corner of his mouth began to tug upward. "Just that you're better in a fight than me."

"Oh, don't even _try_. I could kick your ass without breaking a sweat," she challenged, confidence turning into smugness. "_Your _idea of a good strategy is to throw telekinesis all over the damn place and hope to hit the target."

Peter chuckled. "I've been in more tight situations and I've got more supernatural abilities than I know what to do with. You think _beating me up_ with those little fists will overcome all that?"

"No powers allowed, then," Claire offered. She was ripping off her jacket now and tossing it to the other side of the gym. The lone tank top she wore bared her tanned, toned arms. She raised her fists up to shoulder level, eyes dancing mischievously. "Just man to woman. Scared?"

"Strip boxing," he joked. "This'll be fun." But when she didn't back down, he let out a breath, shoulders slumping dejectedly as he finally had to be real. "No. C'mon, Claire. I'm not going to _hit _you."

The first blow came before he'd even realized what struck him. All he saw was a flash of black go by his face, harshly smacking the side of his jaw and dislocating it.

"Then you're going to lose," Claire grinned. Her muscular leg ended its aerial arc, and her booted foot planted itself safely back beside the other one. Peter's eyes were wide as he clutched his chin, realigning the bones with a fierce _crack_. In one graceful kick, she'd done that much damage. If he'd been an ordinary enemy, he'd already be out of the brawl.

"That's not fair," he demanded, now getting annoyed. "We both know what's happened to me. I can't-,"

Now it was a punch that crashed into his cheek and sent him careening to the left. It wasn't nearly as harsh as the kick, but he still had to windmill his arms to keep from falling.

Peter spat blood onto the concrete floor and wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist, frustrated. "What is this, some sort of payback? Use me as your punching bag?"

"You're not my punching bag," she reminded him, still bright. "You can fight back all you want. And you don't even have to hit me. The best offense is a good defense."

She aimed another kick near his chest and he shot out a hand, catching her by the ankle. And with a burst of pure instinct, he raised his arm, taking her leg with it. Claire was sent falling flat on her bottom.

When Peter's surprised eyes rose to meet Claire's, he could see she was grinning.

"See? Not bad."

He offered a hand and to his surprise, she actually took it. Claire brushed the dust off her pants and then steadied herself again, planting two firm feet into the concrete.

"Have you ever learned anything like this?" she suddenly asked, tilting her head.

Peter snorted, a bit embarrassed. "Not really. I was always just a fan of the good ol' punch in the face. With my abilities, I don't really need weapons or hand-to-hand."

"You might get in a situation where you need it though," she wisely replied. "Remember how Sophia froze your powers?"

How could he forget? It was a memory that never failed to make him shudder. Because of his carelessness, Sophia Linderman had slipped him Temporary Restraining Serum, thus leaving him open to be killed. Which is exactly what she did to him.

"Try this," Claire offered, taking a step towards him. "Say someone is aiming a simple punch. That's usually the instinct of most people under attack- to use their fists. It's harder in real life to remember to use all your limbs when you're in a situation like that."

"But I'm not afraid of combat anymore," he mildly corrected her. "I've been in so many; it's sort of just another day at work."

Claire shook her head in skepticism. "If you don't get scared, you're a liar. I get scared every time I fight someone. Or at least, I did. Anyway…"

She raised a fist to prove her earlier point, and slowly began aiming it towards his nose. Peter quirked an eyebrow and caught it in mid-air with one palm, looking at her in slight bewilderment.

"Uh…and?"

Claire seemed a little triumphant. _"And_ that's a bad idea. You've raised your arm. That leaves all that space right _here-,_" she brought up her other hand and poked him in the ribs. He shivered. "-to be attacked. Also, I could just as soon kick you in the shin, and about a hundred other places. You're completely open, no protection at all."

"I've only got two hands," Peter responded a bit defensively. Claire smiled rather smugly.

"Never face your enemy head on. Turn to the _side._ That protects your entire front, most of your back, one arm, and one leg."

Peter lowered his hand, taking Claire's with it, and carefully turned his feet ninety degrees. He looked up from his shoes, back at the girl who was supposed to be his future wife. She nodded emotionlessly, that crafty smile gone once again. He was beginning to wonder if he'd made up that coy little grin she always 'used' to wear, as if he was idealizing her. Frankly, what if he'd been idealizing her all along? What if this was the real Claire, real when she wasn't ruled or masked by emotions?

"Good," Claire said shortly, pulling her fist out of his clasp. She too was turned to the side, facing the opposite way. Then, she took a step forward, screwing up their straight alignment. Peter too stepped out just to fix it, and Claire, once again, unaligned them. They continued taking steps until they were circling each other in a perfect ellipse, like playing an extreme version of musical chairs.

"Now what?" Peter murmured, feet silently and elegantly grapevining as he followed her path. Claire locked eyes with him and hesitated, which nearly made Peter frown. For a second, the blonde seemed timid, as if she was re-considering their whole thing.

Then, the feeling was erased with a smirk. "Time for some hands-on learning," she answered. And before the words were even out of her mouth, she struck out with a firm hand aimed directly for his face.

Peter was prepared this time, collapsing to the floor and rolling out of her reach. That was what he liked to call the 'Galaxy Quest' move. Lame and very Jackie Chan, but it worked for small guys. Which he, at a slender five-foot-nine, almost qualified as.

Claire didn't back down. This was more than a few punches and kicks here and there- Claire had dragged him into a full-out fight.

Peter vaguely felt like Neo from The Matrix, dodging all these blows with some almost back-breaking ducks. But stolen from the movies or not, they _worked_. Claire hadn't landed a single strike as of yet.

_Oh, _he thought, right as she placed a particularly rough wallop to his collarbone. _Spoke too soon. _

Eventually, Peter moved from simple cover to slight attack, aiming a few small hits towards her shoulders, and other places below the neck; he refused to aim at her face. A couple stuck but none did damage. He supposed that you could almost even call them self-defensive, because the only thing they really did was stop her in her warpath, rather than injure her.

The fight went on for minutes with loud grunts, fast-paced kicks, elegant footwork, and far more of a _real _danger than Peter's practice with his shadow. Despite the violence, Peter found it sort of freeing, invigorating. There was a rhythm to their movement, a steady beating of hearts that led their motions. Every block was perfectly timed, perfectly followed up by another attack. It got to a point where they'd both try to attack at the same time, only to be stopped by the other person. Peter and Claire were each putting every effort into their blows, yet neither one was landing a single punch anymore.

Claire's arms were crossed in an 'X' over her head, every ounce of force in that little frame fighting off Peter. He leaned forward, pushing against her wrists, and she pushed back. They were stuck in a tug-o-war, and Peter knew this was the final act, the climax so to speak of their whole spat. Whoever backed down first was going to lose.

He gritted his teeth and pushed back, trying to restrain Niki's ability from accidentally coming out. Claire was a lot stronger than he would have suspected, especially since he had gravity on his side in addition to biceps. Then again, she had a firm foundation in her thigh muscles. All she had to do was hold him up, when he was trying to push her right into the ground.

Despite their less-than-loving embrace, Claire still peeked up at him from under their tangled arms, eyes dancing confidently.

"Ready to give up yet?"

"Never," he grinned, throwing their manual out the window. "Even if means bending the rules a little."

He abruptly raised his arms right as she sent a powerful push upward. As soon as their contact was broken, Peter reached out with his mind, tossing her against the opposite wall with a tug of telekinesis.

Claire hit the wall firmly, but not roughly. Peter hadn't wanted to hurt her; merely to pin her. That, however, seemed to be offensive enough.

The blonde looked up at her pinned wrists, jaw dropping in incredulity.

"Cheater!" she cried, struggling against the invisible bonds. Peter tilted his head and stepped forward, closer than was polite, studying her. Then, he dropped the bonds, letting her wrists slip down the wall with gravity's work.

Despite his cutting of the telekinesis, Claire still couldn't escape. Peter reached out, pressing his palms against the wall, caging her. He would have moved immediately if she struggled, but Claire remained frozen and trembling. More afraid for what was about to happen than afraid of Peter himself.

"Life's not fair, remember?" he wryly replied. "And as we know, neither is death."

Claire's gaze fell to Peter's free-walking shadow, fresh and returned to the world, which slithered animatedly against the opposite wall. She turned her face back towards the man himself, shivering at the feel of his breath on her eyelashes.

"What happened to you last night, Peter?" she whispered.

His eyes burned into her, intense and ardent. Claire realized with bittersweet heartbreak that he was looking upon her in the exact same way he had before their deaths, before Hell, before this chasm occurred between them…

"Everything," Peter said back, somehow softly and firmly in one gasp. But Claire didn't have time to analyze it- his lips were already smothering her response.

xxx

The Hotel Isis's penthouse, in addition to having nice crown-molding and room service, also boasted a marvelous terrace with a view. The balcony offered both the city and the desert, showcasing Cairo's business district as well as marvelous pyramids on the horizon.

Sylar sat out there in the morning, feet propped up on the railing and a plate full of bacon on his lap. He'd tried being a vegetarian at one point, but this had been the one weakness which made _that _ship sink. They were sort of poor in the Boston house, and bacon was a rare splurge. So, to have Niki make it on a regular basis was practically heaven.

Despite Peter's carefreeness and Claire's antsy attempt at waiting, Sylar was in more of a happy medium. More of a _it'll happen when it happens, and we'll be ready _sort of attitude. He was constantly aware of the impending doom, but didn't let himself dwell on it. At this point in time, he was gonna sit outside, enjoy a nice Cairo morning, and have a pile of perfectly cooked bacon.

The sliding door moved behind him, and Sylar glanced over his shoulder, seeing Adam slip out onto the balcony. The British man had finished loading his guns shortly after Claire went downstairs, and was also in sort of a bored limbo.

"Have you eaten yet?" Sylar asked conversationally, offering his plate. Adam gave him a grateful, but tight smile.

"No thanks," he muttered back. "I'm not quite hungry. I don't need to eat anyhow."

Sylar thought that statement was just redundant at first, before it dawned on him that _I don't need to _actually meant _I don't need to do it to __**survive**__. _Once again, his father's immortality disturbed him.

"I'm sorry if this is prying," he slowly began, "but can I ask you something about your life?"

"It's an open book," Adam replied wryly. "Just go to your nearest genealogy hall."

"I work in one, actually," Sylar said frankly. He frowned, feeling like that job at the library was a hundred years ago. Then, he remembered who he was with, and immediately felt ashamed of that hyperbole, even if he hadn't said it out loud.

"My question is more about your memory, though," Sylar continued, getting back on track. "Does time fly or do things sort of drag? Do you remember everyone you've met?"

"Hellfire, no." Adam sort of laughed. "I'm lucky if I remember my own name sometimes. After all my aliases...Richard Sanders, Takezo Kensei…"

"Sanders?" Sylar's eyes widened. "Please tell me you're not some long-lost ancestor of Niki's, because I _really _don't want to end up related to her."

"That is one sweetheart of a lady you have," Adam smiled warmly at his fearful offspring. "Don't worry. As Sanders, I was apart of the Colonel Sanders chicken fortune. Way south."

"Niki's from the west," Sylar nodded in relief. "That's…a good thing to get out of the way. Peter and Claire already went through that crisis once."

"Hmm?" Adam had yet to hear this story. "They're related?" Which of course, would inadvertently make Claire related to _Adam. _

"They thought they were uncle and niece for about three years," Sylar expounded. "Claire's biological father is Nathan Petrelli, but she didn't know until she was sixteen. Peter used to think he was Nathan's brother. Later on, he found out that he was adopted because the Company took him from Emily and gave him to the Petrellis. But you know all about that part." Sylar shrugged, than noticed Adam, who wore a look of absolute puzzlement. "Sorry if it's confusing. The whole situation is quite _Days of Our Lives._"

"She's Arthur and Angela's granddaughter," Adam stated when his ability to speak had finally returned. "That would explain the fiery mouth."

Sylar chuckled. "Certainly."

He turned away from his father and looked back to the Cairo skyline. But there was something present which wasn't there before.

Sylar's brow furrowed and he leaned in the wrought iron chair. "Wow. What is that?"

Adam followed his gaze out to the pyramids, watching as several dark objects began falling from the sky. The longer the watched on, the closer the dark rain came to them. Eventually, Adam and Sylar could actually _hear _whatever it was landing with little _plunks _on the ground, a combined roar occurring all the way on the other side of the city.

"Oh God," Adam whispered, and Sylar was standing up with him, hands quivering just the same.

"It's here," the amnesiac stammered. He took a few steps backward, fingers groping for the handle of the glass door. Because unless they retreated indoors within the next few minutes, they were going to get pummeled by the wave of falling meteorites that were currently pouring out of the heavens.

Before Adam and Sylar could get inside though, the roar of an unmuffled vehicle sounded beneath their balcony. It was getting louder, so Sylar could tell it was getting closer. And in that moment, a burst of instinct told him to rush back to the balcony railing and look to see what the source of the noise was.

It turned out to be a disgustingly gaunt man with red hair and matte sunglasses, caged in a thin-framed doom buggy. And Sylar wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but it seemed like the storm of rocks was _following _the path of this man, this man who looked so much like their phantom Famine from the painting.

"He's heading towards the desert," Sylar breathed, following the redhead's warpath. Adam had joined him at the balcony railing, and was now tugging on his son's arm.

"Then we follow him," the British man sharply responded. He slipped into the penthouse, already searching out his duffle bag full of handguns.

Sylar followed him right as the sky began falling upon _their _part of town, not even getting to finish his bacon.

xxx

Peter was half-undressed with Claire's legs around his waist when he heard the _boom _of space rock hitting architecture_._

It immediately tore the kissing couple apart. Claire, who was still pinned between her estranged lover and the wall, nearly pushed Peter to the ground in an effort to find a window. Her blonde hair was ruffled, her cheeks shined with sweat, and she had a few shirt buttons to re-snap, but her eyes were all business.

"Peter!" she exclaimed, almost sounding excited as she pointed out the window. "The plague's here! It's happening now!"

The empath swore loudly, deftly grabbing his t-shirt from the dust-coated floor and pulling it over his head. He vaguely noticed that it was inside-out, but there was no time to fix something so petty. Claire didn't even bother grabbing her jacket on the way out of the gym entranceway, with Peter trailing a little bit behind.

And though he knew he should've put his head in the game as they rushed through the labyrinthine halls, part of Peter was still in the gym, replaying what had happened with Claire over and over…

It had been quick, rough, grimy. Totally unlike any other time they'd been close, and even seeing Claire's beautiful face morph with pleasure, Peter felt something fall flat inside his gut. This was the first glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel and now it was ruined…all ruined…

He'd broken his own rule. He instructed her not to tempt him so things wouldn't change when they were back to normal. For a split second though, caught up in his passion, he wondered if maybe this would make things _better. _Maybe it would remind her of what they used to have, and trigger something inside.

God, he was so sunk under. Out of all the things he could be doing when this meteor shit hit the fan, _why _did it have to do with Claire? The apocalypse, once again, had dreadful timing.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, though, that they'd been broken apart before anything _major _occurred between them. Claire's tongue had been eagerly down his throat, but that didn't in any way mean that she felt the same way he did. In a way, she'd been right yesterday. He had it easier. His shadow had returned, and he was normal again. Claire, on the other hand, had a junkyard full of emotional trauma to wade through before she could think about loving again. It wasn't something that could be sparked by a kiss, or even an extreme amount of raw lust, as they'd just experienced. 

His heart was complete once again but she still felt empty. As usual, desire was not a cure; just a distraction that pummeled their relationship into even more uncharted territory.

Still, Peter had focused intently on the sensations attacking his body for those fantastic four minutes. Stored every touch and nip of teeth away. Because even though he knew, from the future, that everything would work out, there was no telling how _long _it would take to get there. It could take two days for Claire to rediscover her feelings, or twenty years.

Making out against a dirty gym wall probably just pushed that engagement back even further.

The appearance of Sylar, Niki, Claire, and Hiro running through the hotel lobby finally beckoned his thoughts back in the closet. _It's time to save the freaking world. You can think about your twisted personal life __afterwards. _

When the others spotted Peter and Claire, no one made any comment about their state of dress or pink cheeks. Sylar, however, did offer an arched eyebrow towards his brother, who quickly rebuffed it with an eyeroll.

The groups of two and four became six as they exited the building, all running towards the left and up a busy street. It was full of screaming natives all ducking from the raining debris. Unlike Vatican City, the sky was not black and the landing pebbles were not alight. It was basically like being an ant in a child's sandbox- a pitcher of tiny rocks falling from space, right down on top of you.

"Where are we going!?" yelled Claire over the roar of the crowd and the harsh sound of raining rocks.

Adam couldn't look back at her, but he was the one who replied. "There's a buggy rental up the street! Our famished friend has headed out into the desert!"

She yelled something back that got lost in the outdoor noise, just as _she_ was starting to get lost in the crowd. Reaching out with gritted teeth, Claire caught hold of Hiro's katana, the only thing tethering her to her friends.

"We're gonna need you to use Micah's power to steal the vehicles, Peter," Sylar called to his brother, who flanked him closely to the right. "There's no time to do it the legal way."

Peter let out a warm laugh that almost sounded like a bark. The thrill of the adventure was starting to course through his veins now, along with the fresh empathy that throbbed in his heart. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be this alive and on fire. This is what he loved about saving people more than the actual 'hero' title. Peter just liked being in the middle of things, pushing his adrenaline to its peak. Things don't seem so dangerous when you're immortal. You can actually stop and enjoy the mess you've gotten yourself into.

"No problem, brother," he grinned back, reaching through the crowd to clap Sylar amicably on the shoulder. "You know what I think about the _legal _way."

The crowd thankfully started to thin as more and more citizens rushed indoors for safety. It was only when the six mutants were out in the open that Peter spotted the lightweight duffle bag on Adam's shoulder. He had no doubt about the contents.

The rental shack didn't require as much of a hike as the Vatican either, leaving the group weathered but still standing upright. And in this slightly primitive part of town, the roadsters were in plain sight, tied up with weak chains and with a clear route out to the desert.

"We can stop time," Hiro rapidly suggested, tugging on Peter's sleeve. "You four- go around to the other side and wait for us."

There was no time to argue or think of a better plan. Stealing wasn't exactly the noblest tool on a hero's utility belt, but it's not like they were really _stealing _when they'd bring the carts back. It was just like borrowing without asking.

Besides, the sky was falling. The rental guys could cut them some slack this time.

Hiro stopped time, pulling Peter into the slipstream with him, before heading into the shack. Peter was right on his heels, eyes already locked on a roomy four-person cart that resembled a Jeep more than a drag racer. It sat on high, thick, deeply treaded wheels; was painted the color of the dunes, and had a sturdily rollcage built up from all four sides, meeting in a criss-cross pattern on top.

Hiro hopped in the driver's seat of the smaller vehicle next to the four-person, his mouth tilting just for a second in a worried frown. Peter didn't need to ask. He knew that his best friend wasn't the greatest or most experienced driver in the world. Usually it was Ando who did all the road travel, when the sidekick was still alive. Hiro had learned to drive at some point though, mostly as a back-up for times like this. It was too dangerous not to know anymore.

Peter climbed nimbly in the four-person and scooted to the passenger seat. Hiro's vehicle was parked on that side, and Peter put one foot in it, straddling between his friend's car and his own. Without saying a word, Peter pressed his hand to the dash, mentally hotwiring the buggy via Micah Sander's power. It took less than five seconds with his fresh, burning empathy. Peter couldn't help but beam as he heard the car roar to life. It felt good to be back.

He turned on his own car and slammed a heavy foot onto the gas pedal, snapping the security chain like a rubber band. Hiro followed him nervously but quickly, thorough the dirt-paved exit and out to where their friends were waiting.

Adam and Niki hopped onto Peter's ride while it was still in motion, both armed with sleek handguns. Adam was a trained shot, and Niki could be a dab hand with a gun too when she let a bit of Jessica come out. The immortal man stowed his half-empty duffle bag in the unfilled fourth seat, pulling the seatbelt over it to secure things.

That left Sylar and Claire to join Hiro. There was a slight pause in their momentum as Hiro let Sylar, who was a much more experienced driver, take the wheel. Claire was the shooter of their group, FBI jock of the twenty-first century and fierce lines of determination etched into her pretty features. Peter could see her small frame in his rear-view mirror, and he beamed absentmindedly. Adam's smack on his headrest was the only thing keeping him from losing focus.

Peter pressed his foot down harder on the gas, propelling their rollcage-on-wheels right into the dunes of the Sahara. His comrades caught up and now they were parallel, two cars full of guns and superheroes out to stop the Nile from becoming a splash zone for disaster.

They left the city limits within a couple fast minutes, now trapped in an ocean of sloping dust. The blueness of the sky was still visible despite the space shower hurling down upon them, and that crystalline hue was the only thing separating up from down.

It was only when the desert started to even out like a Nevada plain, when the closest Cairo pyramid was sharpening on the horizon, when Edmund O'Connell's black-framed doom buggy was within viewing distance…it was only then that they could notice the growing shadow over the desert. The large, round blanket of darkness that kept stretching bigger and bigger…

Peter risked a glance up, despite his role as driver. And though he knew what he was about to see, from all the logic in his mind and the instinct in his heart, nothing could have prepared him to actually lay eyes upon the source of the pseudo-eclipse.

"Bloody hell," he heard Adam whisper behind him.

There were no better words in any language to describe the pitch black meteor furiously approaching Earth's crust. No words at all.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	15. Diamond Shower

Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

"**Diamond Shower"**

"Oh God," Niki murmured. Her dilated pupils were round orbs of obsidian under the shadow of an imminent meteor. Adam glanced at his future daughter-in-law, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I don't think God is going to save us now, my dear."

Peter scoffed from the driver's side. "He never really does," he retorted back. Because despite his pretty pious upbringing and generic religious beliefs, Peter was still a bit bitter about being the official 'world saver.' He respected divine intervention and all that, but couldn't thou holiest cut them a _little _bit of slack every now and then?

A long road stretched before them, leading into Giza territory. The Great Pyramids, the last wonder of the ancient world still standing, grew higher and higher the closer they approached. A small-framed buggy rode up ahead, Edmund O'Connell's red hair shining like a beacon. Peter had to smirk. Their enemy was trapped by his own appearance.

Adam unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, supporting his balance with the bars of the rollcage. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip and raised his gun, firing off a round of premature slugs towards their orange-headed rival.

"Save your bullets!" screamed Peter from below, who had to furiously slam on the gas to keep up with Adam's shooting. "We're not close enough!"

"I've got more ammo than I know what to do with!" the British man shouted back. "It's worth the shot!"

Adam ducked back into the cage to reload, and he couldn't help but notice the loud blasts whizzing over his own head. He looked out the back of the roadster and saw that Claire had poked her head out the top of her own group's car, gun poised and finger pumping feverishly on the trigger.

Peter swore loudly from the front seat, swerving to avoid the barrage of bullets of his comrades. Though Adam commended the girl for taking the lead, Peter kept getting more and more irate, despite his return to compassion.

Niki's hands flew out, grabbing onto the vehicle's frame to keep from falling out. "Calm down!" she scolded Peter, dishwater blonde hair rippling behind her in the wind.

"I'm fine!" he growled back. If they had time, Niki would have rolled her eyes. Because Peter's white knuckles, flushed cheeks, and tight brow _really _proved how 'fine' he was.

"These bastards attacked my child," she crossly snapped. "And unless you take a deep breath, we'll never catch them."

Peter threw a fuming scowl her way before turning back to the road. The road that was rapidly becoming thinner and thinner the deeper they got into the desert. A sliver of morning sun escaped the meteor's eclipse, beating down on Peter's neck. It drew sweat up from under the skin even with a rather mild temperature. Cairo was in the Northern Hemisphere, so it still was in 'winter' technically, but that didn't stop the curse of the desert from striking.

At any rate, what happened next was reason enough for Peter to sweat, regardless of the weather.

Up ahead, right as the road merged into one lane, Edmund O'Connell abruptly swerved off course and went plowing right into the Sahara. His buggy was made for dune surfing, and slid across the silken sand with effortless ease.

Peter, Niki, and Adam all let out meaningless exclamations as soon as the redhead made his move. They were practically in a tank, and driving on terrain like that…

"Follow him!" Niki demanded, ending all argument to what was going through their heads. Peter nodded and turned from her, trying to mask the worry in his eyes. He wasn't the world's greatest driver. He was a New Yorker for God's sake; it's not like a license was even that necessary up there.

Their famished rival seemed used to riding the dunes, but this was all Greek to Peter. He knew, somewhere in the back of his anxious mind, that he could use Sylar's ability to see how things work to figure it out. Perhaps. But that power never really came naturally to him; it took _thinking _to control, and Peter was more of a 'shoot now and ask questions later' kind of guy.

"Hold on!" he yelped, before doing a rather aggressive turn into the desert, hot on the trail of Edmund's roadster. Oh…oh God, this was a lot wore than he'd thought. Adam, who didn't have a seatbelt in the back, was forced to practically wrap himself around the rollcage to keep from flying out. Niki was a little better off, having a belt across her lap, but she was still holding on to what Peter dubbed as the "oh-shit-bar" sticking out of the dash.

Edmund peeked his head out of the buggy's side, glancing back at them for lack of a rearview mirror. Peter considered making some sort of obnoxious gesture towards the redhead, but his hands were a little occupied with a fierce grip on the steering wheel.

Besides- from what he could see of Adam, the British man was angrily taking care of that job for him with a two-fingered jab into the air and a couple half-hearted shots fired from his gun.

Edmund ducked back into his roadster and raised a pale arm, hand sticking out the top of his rollcage. Peter frowned in mystified anticipation. Was this supposed to be some sort of universal surrender sign that he didn't get the memo about?

If only. That train of thought was obliterated when, from Edmund's slender fingers, burst a field of flying locusts. Which headed right toward Peter's car.

Adam ducked back into the safety of the cage immediately, one hand on Peter's shoulder and one hand on Niki's. The blonde woman let out a scream as a blinding field of bugs hit the windshield with a roar, blocking Peter's already sand-blown view. There was no possible way to tell where they were going, and Peter's unstable control on the vehicle finally came up to bite them.

With one too-tight swerve, Peter accidentally sent their framed Jeep violently tumbling across the desert. Adam and Peter both formed an instinctual barrier around Niki, the only one of the three who couldn't heal.

Eventually, the rolling came to a stop when their borrowed vehicle landed with a heavy _thump _into the largest dune within sight.

"Son of a bitch," was the last thing that came out of Peter's mouth before it filled with Saharan sand.

xxx

Sylar, Hiro, and Claire were a good two-hundred feet behind their friends when they saw the other roadster flip, but that wasn't enough room to make a tough decision.

"I'm pulling over and helping them," Sylar instantly declared, but Claire's thwack on the back of his head made him see _her _way.

"Peter and Adam can heal," she snapped. "We go on!"

"Niki _can't _heal!" Sylar cried back. His foot, however, had not lifted off the gas yet. "What if she's hurt!?"

"Then our friends will take care of her," Hiro said, finally deciding that Claire's side was the best. Sylar was clearly blinded by compassion, but they had a world to save. If they couldn't stop Edmund O'Connell, then the whole of Cairo, and its neighbors, would be doomed.

They rode right past Peter's overturned carriage without looking back, though Sylar's hands had tightened significantly on the steering wheel. Edmund was still driving full speed into the belly of the desert, but even with Sylar's lead foot, they couldn't gain any speed. Both cars were equally matched.

Claire reacted without speaking, readying her handgun and sticking her head up through the rollcage. From there, she shimmied her shoulders through and pulled her whole body up, feeling very much like a kindergartner trying out stunts on the monkey bars.

"What are you doing!?" Sylar yelled, taking his eyes off the path and looking up at her in horror. "Get DOWN!"

"I've got better aim from up here!" she retorted, and Sylar was once again too busy driving to respond.

Once all protests had been waded through, Claire focused on the task. She had cool steel in one hand and a blast of sand-slicked wind on the other. Thank God for cheerleading, because without it, she'd never have balance this proficient. Each foot was planted on a criss-crossing bar of the cage and she literally squatted on top of the vehicle like a toad.

Claire quickly wiped the wasteland out of her eyes before leaning forward in a lunge, her freehand holding onto the cage. Edmund was a good fifty meters up ahead, both cars going at a constant speed. Claire took a breath and raised her pistol, closing one eye to get better aim. She usually held a gun with both hands, which made it steadier, but her current situation forbade such luxury.

_Where to shoot…where to shoot…_

Of course, hitting the driver himself would be ideal, and his red hair made for an easy target. Edmund had a small head though, and his shoulders and body were blocked by the seat. Claire bit her lip and lowered the gun, looking for somewhere else to aim. Maybe the tires. If she could blow out one of his tires, his car would crash and they'd catch up to him.

Those were some heavy duty treads though. Adam had informed her that the beauties in her gun barrel would pierce body armor, but Claire wasn't quite sure if that would translate to thick, reinforced rubber.

This was going to take a lot of bullets.

xxx

As it turned out, Sylar had no reason to worry about Niki's condition after the accident. In fact, she was the only one out of the three who could see straight after plowing into two tons of sand.

She wiggled her slender body out from the jaws of the rollcage and onto the flat dirt, coughing to clear her sinuses. She looked over her shoulder, expecting to see similar actions from Adam and Peter, but both men were MIA.

"Peter…" she began, cautiously. "Adam? Guys?!"

A long arm suddenly thrust out of the sand, the wave of golden dust that had filled the Jeep. Niki's eyes widened and she immediately grabbed the hand, burrowing through the pile to grab the unknown man by his lapel.

When she finally pulled him out, she saw it was Adam Monroe, with Peter coming up for air not far behind. Niki sighed and grabbed her would-be brother-in-law by the shirt and tossed him out too, where he landed with a _thump _next to his biological father.

Adam spit out a wad of dried clay and wiped his mouth, disgusted. Niki half-heartedly offered him a hand to pull himself up, which he gladly accepted, a grin shining through his dirt-caked face.

"What a woman," he drawled, pulling Niki in to kiss her gratefully and suddenly on the forehead. The widow rolled her eyes good-naturedly before leaning down and helping Peter up, who looked slightly less dazed than Adam.

"What happened to everyone else?" he sputtered, ferociously rubbing his soiled cheeks with his equally as filthy palms, in a futile attempt to clean them.

"Not far ahead," Niki panted, gesturing vaguely towards the north. "Wanna teleport out there?"

Peter nodded, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. "Yeah, yeah. Just gimme a minute."

But the loud, ripping _bang_s, the result of several shots fired at once, broke all three of them out of relaxation. Peter gasped and whipped around to be greeted with the sight of Claire on top of Sylar's roadster, half a dozen bullets flying through the air, and Edmund O'Connell's car doing an _unfortunate _flip across the desert.

Adam frowned rather quirkily, and offered an awkward scratch of his head. "I don't think we have a minute, friends."

xxx

Claire's brow was furrowed. Her eyes were fierce. Her finger was ready, poised on the trigger, about to squeeze any second now. Her ears were deaf, ignoring Sylar's rapid protests, and her soul was calm, devoid of emotion. This was why Claire Bennet was the best shooter in her rank. This ability to go into absolute _peace. _Solitude. Focus.

Everything else was blocked out except the metal in her palm. And with a held breath and silent plea to a possibly nonexistent God, she fired.

Six shots exploded from her barrel before anyone even registered that a gun went off. When Sylar heard the noise however, he immediately slammed on the brakes, bringing their roadster to a screeching halt in the sand.

Claire was still on top of things, and not just because her body sat on the rollcage. Her quick grey eyes already surveyed the damage, registering that she'd successfully clipped Edmund's car in his two back tires. It considerably slowed down their villain's speed and control

Unexpectedly though, even for Claire, Edmund's roadster suddenly went head over heels, flipping even more violently than Peter's had. It was almost like someone had an imaginary string to the back of the Irishman's vehicle, and tugged it upwards.

Claire gaped a little before looking down, seeing Sylar casually sitting upright with two fingers poised in the air. Her gawp became broader, and she slapped the back of his headrest.

"Telekinesis!" she cried brusquely. "Why didn't you do that before?!"

He sighed, shrugging. "I cannot multi-task. Now that we're stopped, however…"

The girl grumbled all the way down from the rollcage, even when she was loading her gun and stomping feverishly towards Edmund's flipped buggy. The redhead was just now wiggling out from under his contraption, fiery locks dusted with the salt of Egypt.

Adam and Niki suddenly appeared to her left and right respectively, with Peter not too far behind the trio. All of them looked a little bloodied up, but still there, still in action. Still ready to bust a few caps in their supervillian buddy.

"Are you guys okay?" she questioned on the small hike up to O'Connell's crash site.

Adam grinned, white teeth shining when the rest of his face was covered in dirt. "Thanks to sweet Niki."

Averting her mild concern, Claire immediately went into cop mode again. "Hold your fire, okay? I wanna get some questions in."

"Good luck," Niki muttered, but loosened her trigger finger anyway. Claire had to smile. Niki, like Sylar, was skeptical of her today. They were a match made in heaven.

By now, Edmund had fully removed himself from the cart, beaming as he saw a group of six metahumans coming his way.

"Ah. Ready to stop this one too, fools?"

His accent was Irish but his posture was far more foreign, hardly normal or even human. Edmund really _swayed _when he approached them, arms casually held open and free. His limbs seemed rubbery and fluid, as if bones were optional. The band of heroes mutually wondered if his frail body could simply blow over with the wind.

"Who the hell are you?" Claire had her interrogation face on, made even more raw and brutal with her current state of apathy. Edmund's smirk played mischievously under his matte black sunglasses while he casually ignored her question.

"It doesn't matter if you shoot me, lass. Go ahead. Pull your trigger. It wouldn't kill me. And even if it would…either way, the famine's already here. There's no way you'll be stopping that meteor."

Claire's finger tightened on the trigger, but she didn't pull it all the way. Not quite yet. Because once again, there was that _heroic _part of her that wanted to give this guy a chance. She'd never had Peter's soldier heart- the ability to maim any enemy who got in your way. Even before her death, she'd never taken a single life.

"How've you done this?" she spat, gun starting to shake in her grip. She was losing it, and Edmund could see it clearly. All of her allies could, and she could hear them getting closer to her, shuffling through the Sahara earth. Edmund began walking towards her as well while she hurriedly continued with her questions.

"No human, even mutant, could bring down a frickin' asteroid," Claire added as a pseudo-explanation that wasn't needed.

Edmund finally stopped right in front of her gun, the butt of it digging into his famished, sunken chest. With a slow flourish and a dramatic sigh, he nimbly removed his Ray-Bans, revealing the mystery of his shades for the first time. The only reason a man like Edmund would break that self-code was if he knew it didn't matter anymore.

"Well, pretty girl." Two starved, yellow, hollow eyes stared upon a horrified Claire, and he reached out to touch her cheek. "Maybe I'm not hu-,"

_-bang bang. _

Claire's breathing hitched at the noise and she jumped back, dropping her own gun in shock. But the holy water bullets had not entered O'Connell's chest like hers would have. The man who called himself Famine currently had two smoking punctures in his _skull_, going in one side and out the other.

Edmund's glossy eyes went dead immediately. Then, after a full second of silent equilibrium, he collapsed into a heap on the ground. Claire's face was the color of bone, and she nervously craned her neck to look at the source of Edmund's demise.

Adam Monroe's mouth was in a grim slash, his arm still raised and a warm pistol still in his hand. The other five comrades watched him in shell-shock; not quite taking in what had occurred. Edmund's death was nothing to cry over, but it had all happened so fast…

Adam finally swallowed and lowered his arm, letting the revolver slip out of his nimble fingers. He scrutinized his friends from one side of their group to the other, nodding as he formulated the next step of their plan.

"We need to take care of our little rock situation," he reminded them, pointing up at the meteor darkening Egypt's morning. "I suspect it'll strike within ten minutes."

"Sylar," Peter declared, rounding on his brother. "Can you use telekinesis to slow it down?"

The wiry man wanted to believe he could…but had no honest idea. "I…I don't know if my range can go that far. The meteor is several miles away…"

The pleading look on his brother's face though, expression so full of emotion…Sylar had missed seeing Peter's features morphed like that. Determined, hopeful, heroic. So much more convincing than dead and uncaring.

And that's what made him finally mutter, "But…I can try, right?"

"Good. While you're here on the ground, a couple of us can actually go up there and try to stop it." Peter paced across the thick dunes, fingers tapping against his lips in deliberation. Adam watched his son with a grim brood, obviously unhappy that his role of leader had just been abruptly snatched away.

Peter, meanwhile, was using his newfound spark and quick thinking to help out, to weigh their options. This whole meteoroid thing reminded him a lot of his old Superman comics. Clark Kent's alter-ego was so strong that he could actually _push _such an impeding disaster out of the atmosphere and into space.

_And we sort of have that ability too. _Him and Niki. Super-strength, and then Peter could fly too. But was Superman's power truly out of comic books, or did Peter and the single mother really have the might to mimic it?

"I have something," he announced after a tense minute of internal debating. "Niki and I have strength, and I'll fly. We can go up there and try to…er…throw it back into space while Sylar helps with his TK."

There was a hum of doubtful groans that met his hypothesis and Peter sighed, holding up his palms to shush them. "I know, I know, it's really rough, and sketchy right now. But we've gotta hurry, or we'll never come up with a plan. If you think of something better when we're up there, I'd like to hear it."

He approached Niki on quick feet, and gently took her by the shoulders. Her lips trembled and her breath was unsteady, but Peter still had to ask- "Are you ready?"

Niki looked over to Sylar, eyes welling with fear. And her beloved gave her a little nod of encouragement before turning towards the sky's ominous leviathan, starting to weave a telekinetic backup. If he could do it, so could she. Niki never got to have a shining moment. It was time for her to be the heroine for once.

The widow moistened her lips and slid her arms around Peter's waist without a word, and the movement alone was enough of an answer to his question. Peter embraced her tightly and shot up off the ground, speeding like a bullet train towards their next crisis.

Niki's grip immediately tightened in terror as she let out a small shriek. Peter pursed his lips and blinked furiously, fighting to keep the natural tears away. After about a minute of nonstop flying, all Peter could see was black rock, black rock licked by pressurized flames.

He felt Niki's face move against his neck, struggling to see what he was seeing. She let out an indistinguisible noise, hardly audible over the roar of wind, before pressing her lips near his temple.

"I can't heal!" she shouted right against his ear. Peter understood immediately. Their plan required hand-to-rock contact, but this falling star was bathed in fire. There was no way Niki could actually touch it without regeneration.

"Put your hands over mine!" he yelled back as they made their approach. Peter already had one arm stretched up into the air and the heat blistered a thin layer of skin on his palm.

He screamed when they made contact, one of his enhanced arms hitting tons upon tons of raw physical power. The fire crisping his skin was just a side thing; the weight alone was what caused the unimaginable amount of pain in his muscles.

Niki spared him a little, pressing her hand over his and doubling their support. She had one hand buried into his shirt, so Peter felt safe to put his left hand up in addition to the right. The act left nothing but a widow's grip and a thin piece of fabric to hold Niki upright.

In addition to his strength, Peter pulled out every other power he could think of to help them out- cryokinisis, to cool the area where their hands were; telekinesis, to slow the meteor's fall, and the flying itself, which he used to push harder up against the giant. All Niki could do was timorously hang on for dear life, one hand with chipped fingernails smashed on top of Peter's.

Despite the fact that Peter froze a good ten meter area around their interlocked fingers, the slipstream was still badly burning Niki's delicate, mortal skin. He vaguely noticed, when he had a chance to check on her status, that silent tears streamed down her face at the sting. Other than that instinctual reaction to the altitude and fire, she seemed alright considering the circumstances. If Niki was anything, she was a tough broad. She'd thrown men out windows, taken out a whole gang of thugs at once, all while protecting her son for eighteen years. Even among the fire and general hell that surrounded him, Peter briefly let his mind think of her resemblance to Sarah Connor.

Then, something moved against his spine, a small tickle that almost made him loose his balance. It took a second for him to realize that it was Niki's other hand. She previously had it buried into the fabric for support, but she was now untangling herself from it in preparation to let go.

"Don't you do it, Niki," he hoarsely ordered, realizing her intentions. He was struggling, and she wanted to add another arm. Add some more help. But she wasn't even _thinking _of the risk of that. There'd be nothing but spit and prayers to keep her from falling to her death.

She locked eyes with him and stared, lips tightened, eyes horrified, and face stark white. Right before she utterly broke the rules.

Before he could stop her, Niki released his shirt, rapidly moving her second and final hand to cover his. Her crooked ballet flats pressed even harder on his sneakers, the only things holding her up.

Peter considered immediately lowering one of his palms and grabbing hold of her waist, but that would move one of _her _hands and possibly throw them both off balance. He couldn't risk having her plummet from this altitude. No one on the ground had the ability to fly, and he wasn't in the position to chase her to the ground at the moment.

Plus, they had bigger problems- literally bigger. Turns out that what dear Superman was capable of only stayed within the realms of comic books. With Niki and Peter's combined power, plus Sylar's help from the ground, the meteor's fall was hardly even dented. They needed a plan B and fast. Peter wasn't sure how much charring Niki's skin could take.

"I'm gonna take you back down!" he hollered. "We're losing time!"

"No!" she cried, pushing harder. Peter flinched, feeling his carpals beginning to groan at the pressure underneath her strength. He had to give the woman credit for determination, but that internal blaze was about to damn her.

Niki pressed upwards again, so hard that blood was beginning to trickle out of her nose and over her pale lips. Peter had to grab her now, to hell with the risks. They weren't safe positioned like this, especially when Niki seemed to be on a suicide mission.

"Hold still!" he said, before taking a deep breath and jerking his hand away from the surface. And that's when everything happened so fast. Too fast, even for a superman.

As soon as he moved, Niki lost her footing, one tiny heel slipping off sneaker and plunging into empty air. The one palm that was still pushing on his futilely gripped the topside of his hand, only to slide away from the layer of sweat. Their last and most hopeful chance, Peter's left arm, which he'd just freed…that too failed. He reached out, mouth open crookedly in horror as he called her name, desperatly trying to grab something, any part of her. But the one thing he did catch, a piece of fabric from her shirt…it slithered through his digits like a slick electric eel.

"NO!" Peter screamed, immediately feeling the weight of the entire meteor transfer back to his own biceps. His exhausted arms trembled at the force, but an even deeper pain was watching his brother's girlfriend fall tumbling down towards the Sahara desert.

xxx

Sylar's hands stretched towards the heavens, tendons and muscles tight underneath his pallid skin and the fabric of his t-shirt. Telekinesis exploded from every pore in his body, aiming towards a rock that was miles away. Never before had he tried out the distance on his abilities, and a realistic part of him accepted that his efforts were in utter vain. Yet Peter had asked this of him. He had to at least _try. _For Peter. For Niki. For the world.

A vein pulsed in his temple, a sign of an impending stroke. Sylar tightened his imaginary grip, eyes widened as his capillaries started to strain. He could hear Claire screaming his name in the background, but he ignored her just like she'd ignored him in the roadster chase. Claire had done her part by closing her ears and toppling Edmund's Jeep. But Sylar hadn't done anything yet, other than driving the getaway car. He _needed _to be apart of this, despite safety, despite what _Claire _thought. She could consider them even now.

So he let out an anguished scream and pushed himself harder, stretching his cerebral hand towards his friends in the sky. He hadn't been able to bring Micah back to life because of his attachment to Peter and Claire, but perhaps that compassion could save them now. Perhaps that could be the fuel to his fire, to keep him going under the black morning.

And it did empower him, for several long minutes at least. The blood was pouring from his nose, his swollen eyes, his ears, every sense deprived and pumped up at the same time. Sylar was right on the edge of letting the power engulf him, but he somehow managed to keep it control. It was like taming a bull, or maybe even a wild woman. Possible, but only for the bravest of men.

However, when his eyes fell upon Niki, his dearest, falling out of Peter's grasp…everything fell apart.

Sylar gasped, retracting his hands and immediately letting go of the sky.

"NIKI!"

He didn't say it aloud. Well, maybe he did. Sylar wasn't sure of anything. Mostly because he'd gone from exerting more power than he'd ever let out in his life, to stagnant within a split second. It was enough to make anyone keel over, which is exactly what Sylar did.

More blood drept out from between his teeth, soon to dribble onto the ground. Everything in his vision was tinted red. His cells were on fire with the sudden change of energy, the _snap _that had occurred in his aura when he abruptly stopped emitting telekinesis. It was like severing a fifth limb without warning, causing an almost surgical trauma to his body.

But despite the pain and fatigue and malfunction wracking his frame, all Sylar could think about was the love of his life falling from the sky. An angel dropped from heaven.

Claire knelt beside him, and her arms tangled around his shoulders, keeping him upright. Had it not been for her embrace, he'd be face-planted into the sand, trembling uncontrollably.

Sylar's eyelids were becoming heavy and his legs felt like jelly. He could feel his insides writhing to get back to equilibrium. And with a final, worried thought about Niki, he closed his eyes and slumped against Claire, becoming a dead weight in her arms.

The former cheerleader wasn't going to let him give up that fast. She grabbed him by the jaw and forced him to look at her, straight in the eye.

"Sylar? Sylar, you stay with me."

His lids fluttered open like tired butterfly wings, only to fill his vision with the pretty, frantic face of Claire Bennet. Sylar realized then that he was gliding away, going into shock. He'd overexerted his power and overwhelmed his body, and seeing Niki trip out of Peter's grasp had been the final straw…

"Sit up," Claire ordered, pulling on his hair for emphasis. "Take a deep breath."

Sylar obeyed, but hardly even noticed Hiro Nakamura furiously running past them. Hiro's feet kicked up mounds of dirt with every frenzied pace, clogging the air with gold. And by the time Sylar recognized what the samurai was doing, Hiro had already leapt up like a gazelle and disappeared into space.

xxx

Hiro had never teleported _up_ before. He'd never teleported _down _either. He'd never teleported anywhere except straight side to side, right across the Earth, feet planted on the ground.

Unfortunately for him, this was a case of teleporting up…to fall right back down. Two birds with one stone that he'd never attempted before.

As soon as Hiro entered the atmosphere a full mile about Earth's surface, he could feel gravity's merciless pull. The samurai contorted his body, attempting to get into a downward missile position, head facing the ground and arms outstretched before him. That would give him a perfect angle to catch Niki, whom he couldn't really see at the moment. Where was she?

"AHHHHHH…oof!"

The weight of a body slammed against Hiro's spine, knocking the wind out of him. He opened his mouth, stretching his jaw like a yawning lion in a futile attempt to breathe.

Hiro and Niki were in a jumbled heap of limbs and fear, heading towards the hard Earth at maximum velocity. He tried to yell something to her, but the rush of the wind ate his words. Finally, Hiro just grabbed her vaguely, by the shoulders he hoped, and shut his eyes. If they landed instantly on the ground, the sudden switch in force would kill them instantly. They needed some sort of cushion for their fall. Even the sand wasn't soft enough.

Hiro peeked open an eye and spied the Nile River snaking up the Cairo/Giza horizon. Water. The river. It would be perfect, if he could find someway to tell Niki to hold her breath. And once they were stopped by the water, he could transport them back to the desert, to Sylar, Claire, and Adam. The whole plan would take fast work and drain him dry, but it was worth it if they could turn out alive.

"HOLD YOUR BREATH!" he screamed, but even right next to Niki's ear, no sound came out. The blonde frantically locked eyes with him and he tore a hand away from her, bringing it to his face.

Hiro blew out his cheeks and held his nose in a game of charades, feeling ridiculously like he was learning teleportation all over again. The point was understood by Niki though, and she nodded, tightening her arms around his torso and obediently holding her breath.

Hiro embraced her back and looked towards the Nile, a row of teeth digging harshly into his bottom lip. He turned his head away from the rapidly approaching ground and buried his face in Niki's collar, drawing in a final breath of his own.

Here goes nothing.

Hiro clenched every muscle in his body before they snapped out of time and space, out of the sky and into the water. Going from skydiving to _regular _diving in a split second was an unusual and unpleasant sensation. An invisible ball and chain pulled Niki and Hiro right down to the bottom of the shallow river, where they laid wobbly and waiting for the aftershock of gravity to wear off.

Hiro couldn't open his eyes, or else his contact lenses would fall out (_how odd, that something so normal can exist anymore with lives like ours), _but he could feel something soft brush against his cheek. A tilt of his head and he realized that it was Niki's hand, caressing his face in thanks while their sight and speech were muted and deprived.

When their bodies were stable and their lungs were empty, Hiro tightened his grip once again and teleported them out of the Nile, where they afterward landed skidding in the dirt. The samurai rolled off of her, chest swelling and emptying while he gave her room to cough out the water in her chest.

Adam knelt beside them and Hiro could hear Sylar weakly calling Niki's name. The amnesiac was slumped in Claire's arms, and the blonde girl stole a glimpse up, face drained with a lack of emotion.

Only when Adam stuck a needle in his arm and began withdrawing blood did Hiro notice how worse for wear Niki really was. Chemical burns stretched from the top of her forehead to her bellybutton, leaving raw, red skin and tattered clothing. Her hands were covered in spiderwebs of blisters, and already her breathing was arduous.

Sylar had realized Niki's burnt state as well, and was escaping from Claire's hold, crawling over to his fallen lover. Niki turned her head and smiled, pained, when she laid eyes on him.

He swallowed harshly and gently placed a hand on her head, smoothing back her burnt, matted hair.

"You're gonna be okay," he choked out. "Adam…Adam'll fix you up, good as new."

"Indeed I will." Adam smiled like he meant it, delicately turning over Niki's wrist and sticking the tip of the syringe over her skin. "This might hurt a bit…"

Hiro watched on as Adam slowly penetrated Niki's vein, mixing their blood. The samurai wanted to watch on, to make sure she healed properly, but there was one little situation that everyone seemed to have forgotten.

Everyone except for Claire Bennet.

"What about Peter?" she asked from behind the healing trio. She looked insecure, lonely and bare without someone around her. "And the meteor? What are we gonna do?"

"I will go again," Hiro instantly announced. "With Peter and I's combined powers, we can teleport the meteor to another place."

"Don't do it, Carp," Adam wisely warned, sounding more concerned than angry. "You're exhausted. You could get yourselves killed. And where would you even send the monstrosity? To the ocean and cause a tsunami? Back into space to haunt us again later?"

"Siberia, I think" Hiro shortly replied, already rising from the dirt and brushing off his pants. "Or any icy wasteland."

Before the others could protest he closed his eyes and teleported away once more, Adam's doubts still pressing on his chest like a lead weight.

xxx

Peter Petrelli was all but on fire.

He had long since short-circuited his strength, and was now hopelessly hanging on to the diving meteor. Blood drained from pores he didn't even know he had. The only good thing was that his radiation ability kept him from getting any burns, yet that still didn't stop the aching sting in every muscle.

He let out a meaningless yell as the desert got closer and closer. Half of it was for his pain, and the other half was for his disappointment. Peter had no honest clue what the hell he was gonna try next. Just let the meteor crash, then? Kill and starve all those innocent people? What else could they do? For once, there was a disaster beyond the control of mere metahumans. Edmund had been right- this plague was unstoppable, even if Famine himself was mortal.

For the first time since regaining his shadow, which was curled up against his side like a clinging kitten, Peter nearly wished that his empathy was still broken. Because then he could feel frustration or fury. He wouldn't care about the thousands of lives in his hands. Compassion was the hero's curse, the thing which both fueled him and tore him up. Just like how Sylar's abilities had been cut short when he saw Niki fall.

But like a beacon in the night, a savior from above, Hiro Nakamura suddenly teleported next to him, clutching on to the empath's lapels for dear life.

"Whoa!" Peter yelled, grabbing Hiro and pulling him close. "Hiro?! What are you doing up here?"

"Saving the world!" the samurai grinned, before cheekily adding, "And your ass!"

Even with the gravity of the situation, Peter let out a loud, uncontrollable laugh. He remembered teaching Hiro American slang back when his friend hardly knew any English. Unfortunately for Hiro, said 'vocabulary' got him in quite a bit of trouble more than once.

"We need to exoteleport!" Hiro explained loudly, getting down to business now. "I was thinking Siberia."

"That's brilliant!" Peter exclaimed, nodding furiously. "And I don't think we've got much of a choice now. But," he frowned, peering at Nakamura. "You can't touch it."

"I will teleport you, and you will teleport the meteor," Hiro briskly clarified, tightening his grip. "Are you ready?"

_No. _But Peter smiled and nodded, clenching his hands around the fiery surface of the rock. Hiro was getting burnt like Niki had, but his shortened exposure was forgiving. Plus, Adam was waiting for them back in the desert, ready with a syringe of blood and a sly wink.

"Three…two…"

And with a sound like the snap of a bed sheet, Hiro disappeared for the fifth time that day, taking Peter Petrelli and the fate of the world with him.

xxx

Adam and Claire sat beside each other in the dirt, playing awkward third wheels to Sylar and Niki's love fest unfolding beside them. Adam shot the blonde a sympathetic gaze, but she didn't return it. Her eyes were far too focused upon the sky, where Hiro had just disappeared. Where Peter was.

"I hope this works," she whispered.

Adam bit his lip and moved his hand to cover hers in comfort. But right before he could make contact, Claire's jaw abruptly dropped and she was on her feet. Adam blinked and followed her gaze, though he didn't need to look up to know what had happened.

Hiro's plan had gone through. The meteor was gone. One second, the ground had been covered in shadow from the giant rock masking the sun and the next…well, everything was bathed in light.

And before Claire could even ask _'Where are they,' _Peter and Hiro appeared at her feet, absolutely exhausted and skidding in the dirt.

Adam immediately went to work on Hiro's mild burns,which left Claire uncomfortably to accompany Peter. She stood over him, her skin getting goosebumps even though it was perfectly warm out, now that the sunlight had been returned. Peter's crisped lids rose tiredly, but he brightened when he set sight on her.

Petey the shadow, who didn't need to worry about cramps or fatigue, glomped her with a hug. Claire smiled awkwardly and gave him a polite pat on the arm before kneeling next to Peter himself.

"Hey, stranger," Peter said, blinking ardently at her. Claire squirmed in the sand, making a little burrow with the tip of her sneaker.

"Hi." She took a breath and quietly asked, "You okay?"

Peter grinned and, throwing away all risks of rebuff, he reached up to stroke her cheek. "Fantastic."

Adam furtively watched them as he healed Hiro, his eyes heavily hooded by dark lids. Peter was smitten- the boyish look on his face and the excitability of his shadow were enough to show that for fact. But Claire? Claire…she wasn't nearly as responsive. In fact, Adam could tell with certainty that, even with Peter's caress upon her face, she refused to meet the empath's eyes.

Monroe pulled a flask out of his pocket and slid it into one of Claire's empty hands. "There's water in here. Give him a swig. It'll help his healing," he softly instructed, gaze intentionally lingering on the blonde's pretty face.

To his surprised delight, her eyes lingered back. Not passionate or angry, but they were_ there_ even so.

Adam directed a small quirk of his mouth her way before breaking their visual contact, bending over Hiro once more. Claire moistened her lips and inhaled sharply, already unscrewing the cap on the flask. She slid an arm under Peter and helped him sit upright. But he'd become a flaccid weight once again, any trace of joy erased from his features after observing Claire with Adam.

What a two-sided thing, compassion. It truly was the hero's curse.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	16. Careless Love

Chapter Sixteen

**Written for missioninsane prompt "Eavesdropping"**

**Chapter Sixteen**

"**Careless Love"**

The news stations were already on fire by the time six heroes returned to the Hotel Isis. After all, what a story they'd created- a devastating meteor hurtling towards Earth out of the blue, only to instantly pop out of existence. Scientists had yet to find where the rock teleported to, and Hiro figured that it would take at least a couple weeks. By that time, all of this apocalyptic stuff would hopefully be behind them.

The rest of that day got dried up with lots of showering, eating, and resting. Currently, Adam was doing the first, Peter and Hiro were happily doing the second, and Niki and Sylar was doing the last, together.

Claire, on the other hand, wasn't doing much of anything. She wasn't hungry, she couldn't sleep in the middle of the day, and the shower was occupied by their friendly neighborhood immortal. All she could do was boredly sit outside the bathroom door dressed in a terrycloth robe, waiting for Adam (who seemed to _love _hour showers. Joy.) to emerge from the steam.

The young woman sighed and leaned her head back against the wall, anxious to scrub the desert dust off her skin. She caught sight of herself in a mirror on the far end of the hall, smirking a little at her flaxen hair laced with sand.

_I'm a dirty blonde, _she thought wryly, before turning away from the reflection and closing her eyes once again. So maybe she did fall in the 'resting' category, though her idling was evoked more out of monotony than exhaustion.

Yet a pair of voices coming from the next room over finally set fire to her interests. Claire was twenty-three years old, but teenaged life hadn't been _that _long ago. She was quite the eavesdropper back in her day, with influences like Noah Bennet and Angela Petrelli in her lineage.

Claire frowned a little at the thought of her missing father and then went back to her spying, leaning a little closer to the cracked bedroom door to make out actual words.

"I feel bad about today," husked a gravelly voice. A man's voice, calm and solemn. Sylar.

"What's there to feel bad about?" Motherly. Soothing. Niki Sanders.

Claire moistened her lips and craned forward even more, so much that her neck was beginning to ache from the position.

"I couldn't save you. Hiro had to. I should have…I should done _something_. Anything. I should have at least tried."

"Sweetie, you did _awesome_. I'm proud of you. Don't overlook that."

"I'm still worried about Peter, though." There was a heavy sigh accompanied with a long pause. "He told me earlier this morning, before he went to the gym…he told me he loved me."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Niki sounded confused. And Claire was intrigued. "If Peter's normal again-?"

"Yes, what if he is? And what about Claire? What if he's back and she's not? How do you think that's going to affect him? And I'm afraid that, on top of everything else, Adam might beat my brother to the punch."

Claire's stomach did a back-flip. She had strongly suspected, after seeing Petey's return, that Peter had morphed somewhat back into his normal self. However, she didn't like being reminded that her own heart was still empty. That she had a man, the man who was supposed to be the love of her life, hopelessly pining after her while she felt nothing but indifference.

And she especially wasn't comfortable with her other housemates noticing it.

"It's none of our business," whispered Niki's soft voice in return. Claire nodded triumphantly. _Yeah. Thank you, Niki. _"Peter and Claire will work things out in their own time. You should be more worried about your own health, Sylar. All this traveling is hurting you. You can't ignore it anymore."

The creak of a door opening behind her interrupted Claire's eavesdropping. She twirled around and saw Adam Monroe leaning against the ivory wall, towel slung around his hips and hair dripping from the shower. Contrary to the Calvin Klein pose, his eyebrows were teasingly raised.

"Curiosity is not a sin, but I do suggest caution," he admonished in his soft English tone.

She rolled her eyes, covering her embarrassment at being caught. "Way to quote Dumbledore."

"Caught me," he sighed, then eyed her state of dress. "Are you waiting on the bath?"

Claire nodded, and felt no shame in retorting, "Yeah. Have been for an _hour, _thanks,"

Adam winced, genuinely apologetic. "Oh, I'm sorry. I would have offered it to you if I had known."

"It's fine. Hotel water is always hot. Anyway, it gave me time to brush up on my spying skills."

He smiled, eyes flitting over to Sylar and Niki's door. "I very much see that. Hear anything interesting?"

"No," she slowly lied. "Not really."

Sylar's words of anxiety about _Adam beating my brother to the punch _marqueed briefly through her mind, and she resisted the urge to scowl. She wasn't an idiot, despite her sensory deprivation. Adam was interested in her, _carnally _interested, and it was obvious with every smirk and wink and 'hello, love.'

Claire had gone through the exact same thing with Peter and _Sylar _of all people on their last little adventure, leading her to wonder what the hell was so special about her. Claire wasn't self-depreciating by any means- she knew herself to be mildly pretty, sharply clever, and kind of quirky, but honestly. _I'm not Helen of Troy over here, guys. Just because I'm the only single female around…God. Get over it. _

Last time, the fling with her and Sylar had been mostly a misunderstanding. Experimental even, and the whole situation blew over pretty fast. She could only hope that Adam, even with four-hundred years of masculine determination, would give up so easily too.

Not today though, apparently. He offered her a hand and she (_inwardly sighing) _took it, pulling herself up.

Monroe's face was all charm. "I suppose it'd be gentlemanly of me to finally hand over the shower. So you can get that pretty face cleaned up."

Claire nodded mutely, feeling a pang of pity at his hapless smile. But when he touched her lightly, affectionately, on the shoulder before brushing past her, Claire let out the eyeroll she'd been holding in for several minutes.

_Men, _she scoffed as she entered the humid bathroom and closed the door behind her. _They're all totally the same. _

xxx

"We should head out to Osaka tomorrow morning," Adam announced frankly. His lithe figure was stretched across an antique leather recliner. It seemed to fit his age, even though he was older than the chair itself. "Orson is next, and seeing as we killed his girl and his mate, he's probably _itching _to stir up some bedlam."

"You're right," Hiro stated, surprising Adam with the nod of agreement. "The faster the better."

Peter and Niki were the only other ones in the penthouse's living room, and they both exchanged knowing stares. Each had the exact same concern with Adam's plan, and for the same reason. They loved Sylar, and didn't want to see him hurt by all this rush.

It was the brother, the twin by body, mind, and soul, who voiced their apprehension. "But I'm…_we're _worried about Sylar. If he becomes immune to Adam's blood, then there's no way he could handle trips to Osaka, Russia, _and _the trip back."

The miracle doctor watched on as Hiro's slender eyes flitted from Peter to him. The samurai's lips stayed pursed as he clearly chose neutrality on this issue. Sylar's health was none of his business.

Adam ran a hand over his jaw, which was just now beginning to show specks of blonde shadow. It didn't look right on a youthful face like his, but it did bring out the age in his eyes. The other three stayed quiet, knowing how Adam got when he was thinking. It sort of reminded Peter of Sylar, actually. The way his brother and his father narrowed their eyes, tilted their head, arched their brows…it brought out a family resemblance between them that Peter didn't know existed.

"What if Sylar doesn't go to Japan with us?" the British man finally suggested. "What if Hiro teleported him straight to St. Petersburg, and we meet up with him later? That would give him time to recover, yes?"

"It would give him a couple of days." Niki was starting to bob her head as the plan became more and more likeable. "I'd go with him, and look after him. My strength helped with the meteor, and as much as I want to strangle that son of a bitch you're going after…you don't really need me to fight Orson…"

"We'll always need you," Peter said fiercely, which made the widow smile a touch. "But you're right. Sylar would need you more. I don't want him wandering around a Russian winter by himself when he's healing. That would be a disaster."

"Do you want to be the one to tell him, Peter?" Adam asked. He blinked a bit quicker than usual, and Peter sort of got the impression that his father was _batting_ those long eyelashes, kissing up. "How do you think he'll take it?"

"He might be upset," Peter murmured, running a hand through his messy hair. "I'm not sure. Sylar's usually supportive of stuff like this when he knows it's best for the group."

Niki seemed more confident. "He'll be okay. I'll be with him, and that'll help."

"It will be dangerous for us to go to Osaka with only four," Hiro wisely reminded them from the corner. He frowned, and for a moment his face was a sketch of pure lines, save for the triangular patch on his chin.

"We'll be okay," Peter responded slightly weakly. "I've got a lot of power; you've got a lot of power. Three out of the four of us can heal. It's not so bad."

He was thinking of the future again, of the clear New York skies and perfectly alive avatars of his friends. It was the one reason he didn't hesitate to send Sylar to St. Petersburg- because he knew they would stop the apocalypse anyway.

_But,_ a side of his mind timidly spoke up, _what if you take Sylar with you? He lives to be old. The teleportation poisoning obviously won't kill him, so…_

God, this was such a paradox. Once again, seeing the future proved to be more trouble than it was worth. Even though Peter knew where the yellow brick road ended, he had no clue which twists and turns to take along the way. He didn't know if Sylar went to Russia, or if his brother came with them in the future he had seen. He didn't even know if it would make a difference to the timeline. Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn't.

Peter wasn't willing to risk it. So he fell on board with the safer option.

"I'll talk to him about it tonight," Peter nodded, rising from his seat. "I'll get him…prepared. You too, Niki."

Adam nearly gave his son a tight smile, but paused halfway through, as if something had suddenly jumped up and bit him. Peter bowed his head, burying both hands deep into his pockets. Then subtly, too subtle for anyone other than Peter to notice, Adam scratched his forearm, which had just now started to violently itch. Right out of the blue.

Adam brushed off the sudden pinch on his skin as coincidence. But very _uncoincidentally, _by the time the immortal man looked up, his son had already left the room.

xxx

Nighttime fell upon Cairo and Peter Petrelli was an anxious man.

He was pacing in the penthouse's living room, a nervous habit mostly inherited from Nathan. Nathan had loved to pace, because he _always _had some sort of weight upon his shoulders, some burden of devastating importance. After years of growing up alongside sharkish Petrelli lawyers, the habit just sort of stuck with Peter. It was one of the only things about his relationship with Nathan which still remained.

Then, something that definitely wasn't carpet crinkled under his bare foot, interrupting his stride. Peter frowned and looked down at the item, which was a small, bent piece of notebook paper. There were several creases marring it, as though someone had folded and re-folded it several times.

He reached down a hand a picked it up, debating whether or not to look at it. Clearly, someone in the house had dropped it on accident, and it could be personal.

After a few seconds of deliberation, Peter finally decided to peel it open. He couldn't return it if he didn't know who it belonged to. And keeping it secret was worse than anything.

However, to his immediate surprise, what was written upon this mysterious page was incredibly familiar.

'_And for Claire…there's a few things I want to say to you too.'_

The words clicked in his mind. This was his farewell letter. His suicide note of sorts, addressed to Sylar and Claire. He'd written it before the showdown at the Smithsonian, with the full intention of dying in that battle (which he did of course, inadvertently taking Claire along with him). This was just one page of it though, the page specifically directed to Claire. His red heart bled onto this page, every emotion deeper then the darkest sea.

_I wrote this …but how'd it end up___here?

"Where'd you get that?" demanded a terrified female voice. Peter's eyes rose and he saw Claire facing him, hands outstretched weakly towards the letter.

"I _wrote _it," he said quietly, not moving to give her the paper. "Where did _you _get it?"

Claire hesitated before taking a step forward and snatching the item from his slackened grip. Peter voiced a protest that got lost, but it was already too late. Claire held the letter to her chest like one would a child.

"Sylar gave to me," she at last admitted. "I'm holding on to it, to read when I'm ready."

"Why don't you read it now?" Desperation and anger was growing in Peter's voice. "Claire, that letter could be the key to _fixing _us!"

"Or it could ruin everything," she spat. "Don't you understand? If I read it and don't feel anything, then it will nevermean_ anything_ to me. Excuse me for waiting until I can actually _appreciate _what you wrote."

"So that's it, then?" Peter couldn't meet her eyes as the truth washed over him like a black satin sheet. His throat was becoming tight and his words were choked. "You're still the same as before. What happened in the gym…you didn't feel anything?"

He could tell he struck a sour note. Claire folded the letter delicately and slipped it into her jeans pocket before moving past him, towards the couches. Peter rubbed a hand over his eyes, and only then realized that wetness was forming on them.

"Just forget it ever happened," she grumbled, slumping down onto the couch.

"I can't do that," Peter murmured back. "I can't just _will _my emotions away like that."

"Yeah," she answered flatly. "I know. Empathy. But you can still do me the favor of not bringing up _us, _okay? Cause the more I think about what we've lost, the more I'm convinced we're never getting it back."

Peter folded his arms uncomfortably over his chest at her desolate words, suddenly feeling cold and naked. Unable to take it anymore, and unable to think of something to say, he started to walk away to enjoy solitude in another room.

However, right before turning into the hall, he spun around to face the former and future love of his life.

"For the record," he added, thinking of the tender loving Claire in thirty-five years time. The rings upon their fingers and the familiar kisses upon their lips. "Everything's gonna be alright in the end. I _know _it."

The girl curved towards him, appearing bored and almost pitying. She sighed. "No one can know what's going to happen. The future isn't set into stone, Peter. Haven't you learned that by now?"

With that, she went back to watching more Egyptian soaps, leaving Peter feeling bare and promptly awful.

xxx

Sylar's room was dim and murky in the hours of darkness; solely natural light illuminated the amnesiac's face. His skin was pale and flushed with a tint of blue beneath the moon's beams, and the round lunar orb shined in his pupils. This window looked out upon the sprawling Egyptian desert, but the pane of glass guarded Sylar from the prickling roar of blizzardous sand.

It was late, his last night in Cairo. Peter had informed him hours ago about their little plan, their plan to drop Sylar and his bonnie lass off in Russia before gallivanting off to Osaka. The amnesiac was mildly offended at first, but had since analyzed the situation and mellowed down. Adam's plan was a wise one, of course. They always were.

Still, Sylar couldn't help but feel a bit depressed about the decision. He liked helping his friends, not being a burden to them.

A small click sounded behind him, the creak of his door opening. A thin slip of yellow light from the hallway reflected onto the back wall, but it was whisked away when the door closed again. Sylar didn't have to look over his shoulder to sense his brother, standing stubborn as usual. Peter's jaw was clenched with worry; that much Sylar could also tell without a glimpse. But that particular grain of data was merely portrayed by the harsh grinding of Peter's teeth that Sylar's super-hearing could pick up.

The unsociable twin finally glanced over his shoulder and shifted over on the bed, silently inviting Peter to sit. Peter obliged without a word, padding across the wooly zebra-patterned carpet and sinking down onto the mattress beside Sylar. He moaned faintly and pressed his forehead against the heels of his hands, anxiety tightening every muscle in his athletic frame.

Sylar tentatively touched his brother's shoulder, drawing Peter's eyes upward. And though Peter sat upright in submittance, Sylar's hand still rested on his shoulder in familial comfort, squeezing gently just to remind him that it was there.

"I'm so confused, Sylar," whispered Peter, though his gaze stayed locked on Cairo's ocean of sand. "What are we supposed to do in Osaka? I mean, it's not like the paintings are a hundred percent clear. We could miss something and everything would be ruined, especially when we don't know what Orson is after…"

Sylar turned his body towards Peter, more inviting and firm. "You'll figure it out. For now, you're doing the best you can. Nobody should expect more than that."

Peter's mouth twitched up a bit in thanks, leaving room for Sylar to continue. Letting his hand finally drop from Peter's arm, Sylar cleared his voice and drew up one of the many awkward cards hovering between them, finally confirming the previously unanswered.

"I suppose I'll leave for St. Petersburg tomorrow morning with Niki, before anyone wakes up." Sylar paused, and then lamented, "I just wish I could help you more. I've felt so _weak _lately."

A snort came from Peter's throat. He gave his brother a friendly punch. "Sure, Mr. Body Builder Deluxe."

Though Sylar smiled back, it was tight with grim correctness as he added, "That's not exactly the type of 'weak' I meant."

Peter nodded, accepting his twintuition without hesitation. "Don't worry about it. Your moment'll come, just like last time. And even if it doesn't, you've still been a lot of help to all of us, Sylar. I wish your DNA wasn't so messed up."

"Well…we do reap what we sow," Sylar smirked, and Peter grinned back at the slightly morbid joke. They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments before Sylar noticed the false lines of eagerness creasing Peter's face.

Sylar frowned. "What's wrong?"

He noticed the way his brother harshly gulped in response, they way his Adam's Apple bobbed and tightened. Peter blinked once, long and slow, letting his lids fall and rise over his eyes before lifting his stare to Sylar.

"There are some things I…want to talk to you about. That I haven't yet."

"Yes?" Sylar asked, barely above a whisper. His mind reeled with all the possibilities, and he had to rein in his wild imagination to actually focus on the truth Peter spoke.

"My dream," Peter murmured. "There's this dream I've been having a lot lately. Like on the night I went radioactive."

Peter drew his legs up to his chest and rested his chin in the valley between his knees. Sylar was reminded of a scared child, a role that he was rather disturbed to see on his usually macho brother.

Sylar slid closer, yet they still weren't touching. "What exactly happened in it?" he asked delicately. "I know you're not normal, Peter, none of us are. But going nuclear in the middle of the night is still a first for you, despite your prophecies."

"It's weird though," Peter replied, glowering deeply. "It didn't seem _real. _It always has a really dream-like feel to it, like I'm in the middle of a Dali. I don't think it's supposed to be literal this time."

Sylar, now kind of confused, nodded anyway. "Alright."

"You…you know…you can't tell anyone about this. They'll get the wrong idea."

Once Sylar had nodded once again, Peter leaned forward, lowering his voice with a scared glance towards the door. "I don't remember exactly, but I had Hiro's sword. And you, and Niki and Claire- everyone was there. We were in this burning city, here in Russia, I think. But it looked fake, you know? Like we were in the middle of a comic book or something."

"Stan Lee's been directing your dreams?" Sylar smiled very slightly. Luckily, this evoked Peter to chuckle.

"Yeah. Anyway, you're running at me and not saying anything and I just…" Peter ducked his head, pained. "…I just cut you down. And Claire and everyone."

Sylar touched Peter's cheek, guiding his brother to look up at him properly once more. "Listen. That wasn't _you. _I'm sure. You'd never do that."

"How do you _know?_" Peter shot back, slightly hysterical. "I was _happy _about it, okay? Every time I killed someone, it was like I was flying for the first time. What if there's something in me that changed when I came back? What if I brought something back from the afterlife, like a parasite?"

Sylar cocked his head and looked upon his twin forthrightly. "Peter. Be realistic. Perhaps the dream just represents some sort of upcoming war or betrayal. It's symbolic. Besides, how do you know you weren't in the perspective of someone else and _they _were happy about the battle?"

"I don't know!" Peter moaned hopelessly, rubbing the underside of his hand roughly across his forehead, messing up his hair. He slumped back against the headboard and gazed at Sylar with bloodshot, tired eyes before repeating, much more feebly, "I don't know."

Peter was brittle, bent too many times without breaking that now every emotion and bone was like glass. Sylar's dear brother was always the one who had Atlas' burden thrust upon his young shoulders merely because his ability was the most powerful. And Peter never even wanted such power or the responsibility that came with it. He only wanted to fly, that's all, not save the world. Or even worse- destroy it.

Sylar had always been there in Peter's alchoholic days, to rock his brother into sleep after silently weeping together on the couch. The world might have needed Peter to save it, but Peter needed Sylar. The empath loved Claire to death but she was as unstable as an atom bomb, fiery and stubborn, especially nowadays. Sylar was passive, calming, a constant. The rock in Peter's core that kept him anchored to sanity. Ironic, considering where they were over seven years ago.

"We don't have to discuss it," Sylar sincerely reminded him. "Why don't you talk about the other thing you wanted to tell me?"

Peter let out a dismal snort. "The other thing is probably worse." Nevertheless, he swallowed and began with a sharp breath, "On the way back from Spain, when I fixed the ammo I…accidentally went to the future."

Sylar's lower lip twitched and he blinked rapidly, masking his hammering heart with an expression of still life. "How far?"

Peter took a long time to respond, but when the words, "Over thirty years," escaped his lips, Sylar couldn't help but take in a shocked and admittedly unmanly gasp.

"I was there with Claire and we were _married_," Peter's mouth rambled on now, the story tumbling out of his mouth like dead air. "And we looked exactly the same, like we hadn't aged a day. And then I saw this old woman, and a brunette girl was next to her, and we were all dressed in black like we were about to go to this fancy party. I thought it was one of Nathan's things at first, you know? Some stupid campaign meeting."

Sylar's eyes glistened as his ears, mind, and soul absorbed Peter's choked tale. Peter continued to blurt out the details, mostly insignificant little tidbits, until one statement truly made Sylar want to vomit.

"It took a while, but I figured out that the old woman was Niki and…and the older girl was your _daughter, _Sylar, your _daughter. _I think she was named Melissa, but she was just…she was beautiful. She looked just like you. Kinda like me too, but mostly like you, or Emily Freis."

"Stop," begged Sylar, standing up and rubbing his forehead. "I don't want to hear anymore, Peter."

"I'm not done yet-"

"I don't care!"

Peter was on his feet too, hands reaching out and soon clutching Sylar by the lapels. Their faces were inches apart as Peter's eyes burned with desperation and despair.

"There's one part you have to hear," Peter murmured painfully, loosening his grip until Sylar's shirt slid through his fingers like oil to water. He turned away and pressed his face against the window, eyes closed as he tried to bring forth the vision of the future which he'd been engulfed in.

"I'm sorry, but you have to know," he croaked. After moistening his chapped lips with the flick of his tongue, Peter finally took a deep breath and finished. "There were us and Niki and Melissa, but you weren't there. And right before I came back I found out that's it's because…we were all…" His fingers clenched against the window's glass and he had to fight from rearing back and punching the window into smithereens. "We were on our way to your _funeral, _Sylar."

"In thirty years?" Sylar whispered hoarsely, sitting back down on the bed. "That's all I have?"

Peter opened his shining eyes and stared upon his brother with sympathy. He closed the space between them, wrapping his arms around Sylar's broad frame with ease.

"I'm sorry I had to tell you," he apologized genuinely against Sylar's collarbone. The amnesiac didn't move an inch, his eyes burning horrified holes into the window pane. "But_ this_ wouldn't make any sense if I didn't."

He pulled away and reached into his pocket, spotting a tinge of confusion etched on Sylar's distant expression. But as soon as Peter plucked three vials from his pocket, all filled with liquid crimson, Sylar's face morphed into astonishment.

"I stopped time and stole them from Adam's arm when we were in the living room," Peter explained flatly before his twin could inquire anything. He also withdrew a syringe with a sterilized needle tucked inside, content to hold open Sylar's large hand and tuck all of these items into his fist.

"One of them is to help you recover from the trip tomorrow," Peter instructed. "The other ones are for after all this is over, so you can stop your aging. Hopefully, by the time it runs out, Claire's blood will be mature enough that we can use hers."

Sylar stared at his flat palm, at the blood of his father and the expectations of his twin. His head rose up and he peered at Peter with honest confusion and naïve eyes.

"I don't know what to say," he timorously confessed. "Why are you doing this?"

Peter's tone was somehow both grim and tender- a strange mix of bittersweet love. "Ever since we met Adam, I've been wondering about the whole immortality thing. And even though I knew it would happen, it didn't really sink in until I made that trip. I'm gonna have to watch _everyone around me die. _Including you, and Niki, and even Melissa one day. You wonder why Adam's a bit cracked?" He shook his head in disbelief at his own words. "I think I'm starting to understand. And I don't want Claire and me to end up like him so…"

He took Sylar's hand in both of his, folding his brother's finger's over the vials in his palm. "So I'm giving you this. I know I'll never be able to stand having to sit through your funeral."

"Even though I had to sit through yours," Sylar mumbled back, his eyes lowering. "I love you, Peter. And I love Claire. But I don't want to live forever."

Peter mildly understood. "Neither do I. But I figured it would be a bit easier if we were in it together."

Sylar looked to his feet, which still were tightly laced in brown combat boots. He felt Peter press a brotherly kiss into his hair, along with a confident squeeze to his shoulder.

"I won't to force you into anything," Peter stated in finality. "But hold on to them, will you? Just in case."

Sylar glanced up and nodded, drawing the vials close to him and sliding them into his pockets.

"Okay, Peter," he swore. "Just in case."

xxx

While Peter was finding comfort in his brother, Claire Bennet was alone at the kitchen faucet, pouring herself a glass of water. Niki, Sylar, and Hiro hadn't had the best reactions to the tap, but Claire's healing took care of any impurities in the water. Thank God for regeneration. Well…at least this time. She wasn't sure if a filter in her stomach was exactly worth living forever.

And speak of the devil. The face of immortality itself waltzed through the kitchen doorway, moseying over to the sink to join Claire. She smiled tightly at Adam and turned back to her water, the air now thick.

"Have you seen Peter anywhere?" he asked casually. Claire shrugged, still not looking at Adam.

"I haven't talked to him in a few hours." Her tone was a little bitter. Bitter enough to bring a knowing smirk to Adam's handsome features.

"Lover's quarrel?" he inquired. It was a prying question, but the way he asked it didn't seem nosy. If Claire hadn't known better, known his real intentions via good ol' female intuition, she'd almost believe he was concerned for them.

"Um…not really," she said. It was a half-truth. "I just haven't seen him around that much. Why? Do you need to talk to him?"

Adam straightened his posture, raking a hand over his blonde crew cut. "Oh, no. I merely wondered if he'd told you about the plan with Sylar."

Claire nodded, glad to be off the subject of her estranged lover. Adam was incredibly easy and fun to talk to, as long as they avoided Peter. "Niki told me all about that, yeah. It's gonna be harder without them."

Dorian Grey waved a hand nonchalantly. "We'll be fine. Two of us can stop time. Three of us can't die. We have an edge. And speaking of which, that was some good shooting you did today."

"You too," she complimented back, before sharply adding, "Even though I told you to hold your fire."

"That monster was going to touch you," Adam responded, looking towards the floor now. His brow was furrowed. "I lost control. Unfortunately for him, I happened to have a gun in my hand at the time."

He glanced up grinning, and she admittedly smiled back before ducking into another sip of water.

"I was surprised, though," he slowly continued, a crafty expression now lacing his face. He was gazing at her again now, with blue eyes that seemed to peer right inside her soul. Claire shivered.

"Surprised?"

"Yes. That I was the only one who reacted in such a manner."

Claire smirked a little against the rim of her water glass. "Everyone else was too busy listening to me when I told them to, again, hold their fire."

"You don't expect me to believe that once upon a time, your Peter wouldn't disobey _suggestions_ to save your life? If he really loved you now, you'd think he would have fired as soon as that bastard Horseman came within ten feet of you."

Claire's insides tied in a knot. Back to Peter once again.

She inhaled. "He…he wasn't armed. Peter doesn't like guns."

Adam scoffed, a cruel and unusual noise coming from his usually buttery voice. "Pathetic excuse. He's the most powerful man in the world, and certainly the most capable out of our group. If he wanted to do something, he could have. He would have."

Claire was trapped between his tall body and the countertop, unable to slip around him and excuse herself. She set her glass in the sink, afraid that it would slip out of her sweaty palms. Then again, maybe that could be good. Shattering the glass and causing a distraction…

Adam brought up five slender fingers to caress her delicately across the cheek. Claire was frozen in place, eyes wide and lips paling. Confusion filled her mind, and she was unable to make a decision. He was going too fast, not giving her enough time to consider the possibilities…even though every cell in her body told her to run…

"My son isn't old enough to appreciate how…_precious _indestructible women are. How _rare. _How they should be protected_._ In four centuries, I've never met a single one."

He was leaning down, bringing his lips closer to hers. But right before, he angled his face to speak right against her ear.

"It'd be a shame to let you slip away."

Earlier, he had spoken about reaction. About what to do to protect her from harm, and who should have been the one to pull the trigger. It was a real life synopsis of fight or flight. And now that Claire was facing another impossible obstacle, she had to make the decision. Create a reaction.

And she chose to fight.

Centimeters before Adam could actually kiss her, Claire's hand struck out, slapping him harshly across the face. The man stumbled backwards, still within her reach, a hand pressing dazedly against his reddening cheek. He'd clearly not expected that, which normally would have made a pang of sympathy travel through Claire's empty heart.

Adam was tall. Adam was handsome. Adam was British. But above the James Bond complex, Adam was also Peter's father, and he was four-hundred years old. The age was something Claire, as an immortal, could deal with. But the Oedipal complex of this whole situation made her stomach churn, not to mention her own rocky relationship with Peter at the moment. After all, they were still together…sort of. She still felt like she was _his._

And something about Adam just felt wrong.

They stood in silence and Adam cringed, eyes closed in mortification at her rejection. Still caught up in the adrenaline fueled inertia, Claire drew her hand and smacked him on the other cheek, lighter this time but enough to get the message fully across. It was overkill, but she was too shaky to care.

When she was calm enough to talk and Adam had opened his eyes, Claire spoke with an uneven voice.

Her jaw remained dropped in disgust. "You are Peter's _father. _Do you know how _wrong, _how _immoral…_?"

Adam bitterly bared his teeth. "When you get to be my age, love, terms like that hardly have meaning anymore when it comes to who you can be with."

"But you have that girl, Elle, right? What about her?" the blonde frantically reminded him. "And I love Peter! I always have!"

"Don't lie to yourself. I can tell you don't want him," Adam murmured darkly, leaning forward. "You wouldn't meet his eyes today, in the desert. But you'd look into mine, Claire, wouldn't you? We're so alike. Immortal together."

"You're right. I might still be broken. But _he _loves _me_," Claire choked, fighting back the tears welling in her eyes. "And I will not _hurt him _like that."

Adam took her by the shoulders gently, making her meet his eyes. He wasn't a man who normally begged, but a situation like this forced his dignity away.

"Claire, I beseech you. Pity me. Please. After four-hundred years of loneliness, can you understand why I act like this? Can you at least _understand_ that?"

She did pity him. But pity was not the same as love.

"I do, Adam. And I'm so sorry." She raised her chin a little higher as she brushed past him, abandoning her glass of water on the table. "But I have Peter and he has me. There's no room for you."

She left the room and he didn't chase. He didn't even move. Just stared upon the tiled kitchen wall with everlasting eyes and ageless idealism. Adam was not a stupid man, not in the least, but there was a spark of hope inside him for times like these. After all his experience with life, he should have been able to have anything he wanted. But something about Claire made him not want to manipulate her.

So he let her walk away.

Claire sniffed and wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve, forcing a dam between her tears and her cheeks. There was no reason to cry. No reason to be upset over an old man's folly. Yet there _was_ a reason why her heart had wrenched in that conversation and she walked right into it on the way back to her bed.

Claire choked and looked up into the face of Peter Petrelli, sobs bursting through her emotional barriers. His eyes were eyes wide in bewilderment, but he nevertheless cradled her wobbly form in a cocoon with his arms.

The truth of Adam's words had cut like a knife. Claire wanted to love Peter. God, she wanted to remember how it felt to die in his arms, to make love to him, to feel such pride at saving his life, and him saving hers. All those memories remained as info in her head, but were entirely staunched and emotionless.

She wanted to remember loving Peter, and that brought more pain than any of Adam's winks or smiles.

"I'm yours," she sobbed hopelessly into his collar. "I'll always be yours, no matter what happens."

Peter hastily pulled back to look her in the face, his eyes dancing with hope. Claire realized what impact her statement had, and that he now probably thought her feelings were returned. Peter was smarter than that though. As soon as he saw that her tears were of misery rather than joy, he knew. He didn't know _why, _but he knew.

"Hey, hey," Peter whispered against her ear. He pulled her back to his chest. "This isn't about earlier, is it? About the gym, and the letter…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

She cut him off with a small shove, teeth tightened in a most Claire-like fashion.

"Will you shut up and just hold me?" Claire cried, before throwing herself back into his welcoming arms.

And Peter nearly smiled. Because even while her lack of heart still remained, he could finally see _his _Claire starting to shine through.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	17. Frostbite

Chapter Seventeen

**Written for missioninsane prompt "Blizzard" **

**Chapter Seventeen**

"**Frostbite"**

The walls are lined with frost, but it's not that cold in here. Not nearly as cold as it is outside, with the loud Russian wind roaring against stained glass windows.

Peter blinks and looks down. For the first time, Hiro's sword is not clasped within his cold fingers. He has nothing on him but the thick clothes on his back and a weight of confusion on his shoulders. Where was the sword…how did he get in here…?

Voices interrupt his thought s. A woman and a man, both with American accents, but he can't make out their words. All these foreigners to St. Petersburg…why is this place so special?

Peter moistens his chapped, cracked lips and begins stepping silently towards the voices. Left foot forward, right foot, left foot, right foot, one step at a time, always staying in the middle of the palace's tiles. He can't afford to step on a crack and bring any bad luck to himself in a time like this.

The man holds his breath as he presses his body flush against a corner wall, before craning his head round the bend to spy on the others. The woman is masked in shadows, but the male is in the light. He's tall, skinny, with a head of wavy black hair. His back is facing Peter, but the empath already knows who he's staring upon.

_This is Orson. _

As for the woman, his mind is in too much of a dreamlike haze to focus on her. Her voice is very familiar, and he _knows _he knows it. But her name and physical appearance are just out of sight. Maybe that's why she won't step out of the shadows. Peter's subconscious doesn't remember her, so she won't come out and play.

Orson and the girl separate, and the man Peter knows only as a reaper starts toward him. In the dim palace light, Peter spies two blindingly bright cerulean eyes pressed into Orson's gaunt skull. Peter wills himself to become invisible, but it's not working, his power is screwed up, and before he knows it he's face-to-face with the man who killed Micah Sanders.

"You," smirks the blue-eyed devil. "Where have you been off to?"

Peter opens his mouth to talk, but doesn't know how to answer. There's some sort of mistake, right? What does Orson want with him? Orson doesn't even _know _him.

Something glints in the pale man's hand, drawing Peter's vision lower. To his chagrin and horror, Orson is holding Hiro's sword, the blade stained absolutely crimson with blood.

"This is a fascinating weapon," Huxley comments. He runs a finger down the edge of the blade admirably, as though he is caressing a lover. His finger splits and re-heals, but you'd never tell from the engrossed expression upon his porcelain features.

_That's what he looks like, _Peter thinks offhandedly. _One of those scary china dolls who comes to life in the middle of the night. Then again, maybe that's all he really is._

Orson's gaze flits back to Peter, loveliness erased with cruelty. "It can cut through absolutely anything, you know? Even the flesh of a god."

Before Peter has time to react, Hiro's sword is buried in his gut, ripping apart his insides with one fierce slice. He opens his mouth to scream, but Orson's stolen his voice box as well as his defense. Peter has one hand on the blade going into his stomach and the other on Orson's tailored blazer. He sinks to his knees with the sword still inside him, Orson's smirking face hovering over him like a bringer of death itself. His nickname of Reaper is suddenly _so _justified.

Peter gasps and crumbles onto the marble, blood pouring from his midsection like a waterfall. He slides off the end of the katana and simply lays there, every shallow breath bringing him closer to his dark fate. Orson is still grinning and that mysterious woman is accompanying the fun, her wicked laugh nearly deafening Peter as it echoes off the vaulted ceilings. Oh God, he didn't ask for this…what did he do to deserve this…must his mistakes in the realm of dreams cause damnation like this?

There is copper in his mouth and not much time. Sylar, Claire…one of them can save him, maybe…maybe Sylar still has a vial of miracle blood…or maybe their smiles alone will stitch him back together. It doesn't matter he just…God it hurts…he just…needs…to find…them…

Peter yelps feebly to gather his strength and he rolls over, staining the other side of his clothes in the pool of blood beneath him. Orson and the woman make no move to stop him. They're cocky. They don't care about what he has to do. Because they know. They know his fate, even if he himself still has hope. The Horsemen are bringers of fact and pain, and hope doesn't exist if no one believes in it.

Peter lets out a sob at the agony in his gut but nevertheless begins crawling, taking a trail of his own scarlet life force with him. Drip…drip…drip…it splatters like Chinese water torture of the deepest red onto unstained white tile…

The world is shifting around him, and he has to squint to see it. The nightmare is taking pity on him, because even it has lost hope. The dream, like Orson, and the woman, has sucked any faith right out of him, just like how his life is pouring out onto the palace floor.

Peter cries out when he feels frost under his palms. The dream has taken him outside into the negative degree blizzard, out into the middle of a battlefield where he, curled in a ball and bleeding, is ignored. It's noisy out here with the sound of war, but Peter hardly notices. Half of his face is burrowed in the snow, which is quickly numbing the nerves of his cheek with frostbite. He shouldn't hurt like this; he can heal, dammit, despite Orson's words about the _magic _of Hiro's sword. There's no such thing as magical weapons or prophecies or demons. There is the world, and then there are dreams.

The pain in his abdomen is absolutely thumping with sharp intensity. It elicits a moan and he curls his knees closer to his chest. And then a pair of boots appear in the snow, right near his face, and they're so recognizable that he starts to weep in relief.

"Sylar!" Peter chokes, looking straight up into the face of his brother, his savior. "Sylar, help me."

But strangely, the watchmaker doesn't move. Just stares upon his supposed twin with eyes as cold and ruthless as the ground Peter lies upon. Claire, Niki, Hiro…all are there too. They flank Sylar's left and right, peering quizzically at Peter as though he's a writhing science experiment.

"Sylar! Claire!" he screams, beginning to grow desperate. "Help me, please! God, somebody help!"

He rolls on his back and shows them his torso, which is very obviously stained with dark burgundy warmth. Peter grabs Sylar's ankle weakly and tugs, trying to get the message to his Gemini, but all the amnesiac does is lightly nudge him away with his foot like an unwanted puppy.

Peter's nose is deep into the snowy ground, and tears freeze on his cheeks as they fall. He's pathetic and he can't move anymore, and now he's given up his one thread of hope on top of everything else.

And without that hope, he has let the dream succeed, and it allows him to finally wake up.

xxx

For the first time since the return of his shadow, Peter had The Nightmare again. And for the first time _ever, _he didn't awake from it in screams. His lids merely rose in silence, penetrating the thick darkness surrounding his bed. A glossy film of tears covered his irises, and gravity pulled them to the far corners of his eyes. They slipped tentatively around his lashes, then slid over his temples and into his dark mop of hair. But once those few drops of leftover misery were shed, Peter didn't do anything that even resembled crying. He just lay there, floating in a starless galaxy with no light at the end of the tunnel.

He had hoped that these dreams were a result of the apathy. He had even mildly hoped that next time he slipped into slumber, he would be the slain, not the slay_er._ Ironically, that hope came true in the most unusual of ways…not exactly as he'd expected. But of all the things he'd _hoped _for, he'd wanted most of all to be confirmed as a good guy. With this vision still lingering in his thoughts, nothing on their quest had changed, really. Peter had his emotions back, but perhaps that made him even more vulnerable to evil. Before, he was hard to turn. Now though, if someone used his own heart to manipulate him…

Peter shuddered and rolled onto his side, desperate to…God, he didn't even know what. Get back to sleep and relive the nightmare, or stay awake and have to _analyze _it? He was truly caught between the lesser of two evils here, and not even a long walk or a pack of PEZ was gonna cure it.

The only thing that he could find comfort in right now was the one thing he couldn't have- the woman sleeping in the next room over. When they'd both been emotionless, both him and Claire, he'd thought things were dire. Yet _this _situation definitely put things into perspective. The only thing worse than no love at all was unrequited love. He could almost recall seeing something similar in his own personal Hell a few months before.

Peter sighed. At least there was his brother. There would always be Sylar.

_Oh, wait_…he remembered. _No. He dies in the future. _

The empath let out a groan and tossed onto his stomach now, burying his face in the feather pillow. One of the few lessons that Peter had learned over the years was of life's unfairness_. _Karma kicks you when you're down. Armageddon has bad timing. That sort of thing. His personal life had always remained either wildly exotic or boringly ordinary, one extreme or the other. This _rut _though, this rut with all it's _oh waits _and dehydration and subtle biting reminders…

He sounded childish saying that _life's not fair _after all he'd been through_. _But damn if it still wasn't.

Peter rolled over again and sat up in his bed, bringing his knees to his chest. The movement made something press into his hip, something tough that resided in his jeans. His brow softened a little when he recognized the feeling, and with the delicacy of an old gardener, he plucked it from his pocket.

Angela's former engagement ring and the future ring of Claire Bennet. Sometimes the future was a two-faced bitch like that. You could see what would happen, but you could never know how to get there. It was kind of like looking into a crystal ball and seeing your own death, by old age maybe. You could jump out of as many planes as you wanted, because you'd know _that's _not how you die. However, at the same time you're left wondering how it will feel to have your chest cavity eaten away by thousands of microscopic organisms.

He stared into the bottomless depths of the diamond. It still glinted in the dark; just enough so he could tell it was there. The room didn't have enough light for him to see the inscription on the inside, but he'd memorized it a long time ago.

_To Claire. From your hero. _

Peter knew that it would rest upon her fingers one day. He knew that one day, his Claire would accept him back into her life, her body, her bed. He knew that he would stop the apocalypse with a little help from his friends, and he most certainly knew that, besides immortality, they were gonna live happily ever after for good this time.

Yes, Peter Petrelli knew all of that by heart. But that didn't stop him from worrying if he'd ever feel like Claire's hero again.

xxx

Sylar and Niki were already gone when morning came around, leaving everyone to become scavengers for their own breakfast. Hiro raided their complementary fruit basket, wolfing down an apple, a banana, and a couple handfuls of grapes. The divided lovers split a package of microwavable bacon and a bagel.

Adam decided to not even eat, annoyed at the hunt. He claimed he didn't need it to survive anyway, and if the glove fits…

Peter and Claire weren't quite so accustomed to immortality yet. In fact, both of them would rather _ignore _their everlasting cells in favor of a normal life, a normal routine. As normal as you could possibly be with the ability to grow back your bones, fly, or move things with your mind.

All four of them ate in silence off a lack of things to say and to think over the past twelve hours. Other than Hiro, who remained peaceful with everyone, all the time, the other three weren't on the best terms. Adam still stung from Claire's rejection of him. Claire was still feeling uncomfortable after rejecting Adam. Peter still dwelled in his violent, and secret dreams, and of the engagement ring in his pocket. Claire felt genuinely hospitable to Peter, after having thrown her sobbing form into his arms the night before, but not a line on her face showed it. This new and detached Claire seemed to forget about stuff like that, just like she had urged Peter to forget about their rendezvous in the hotel's fitness center.

Once breakfast had been put away, for three of them at least, Hiro brought them all to the center of the living room. Adam drew his duffle bag of arms from under the table, unzipping it rapidly and reaching inside.

"We're all going armed today, friends," he said. It wasn't a question. "What we lack in numbers we can make up for with lots of bullets."

Claire accepted the gun amicably, and Hiro took one without expression. Peter could tell by his friend's face that the weapon wasn't gonna get touched. Hiro loved his sword like a pet. There was no going back from there.

When Adam handed Peter a revolver, it took the empath a moment to holster it in the back seam of his pants. He too didn't want to be armed, not like this. He had more powers that he could even count. Hopefully, this would just be a safety precaution.

"I hope Sylar is okay," Peter absently muttered, shuffling his feet. "Did you leave them in a good place, Hiro?"

The Japanese man seemed a little…ashamed. "I'm sorry. I tried the best I could, but at that hour and location, it was hard finding somewhere nice to put them. I gave them money and put them in the center of the town. They should be able to find a hotel."

"Don't you worry about your brother," Adam piped half-heartedly. "I'm sure Niki's taking good care of him. That is one strong lady."

Peter recalled Niki's hands grabbing him and Adam each by the collar, pulling them out the sand dunes when they'd wrecked the roadster.

"Yeah, she is," he agreed, meeting Adam's gaze and offering a small smile. To his surprise, Adam smiled back without a drop of bubbly charm or con-man exploitation. No more hiding four hundred years with fake chipper where plastic surgery wasn't needed. It was just a fragile human expression that let his age shine through, and Peter finally felt a spark of respect for his weathered father.

"Are we ready?" Claire asked dryly. Peter noticed with a small beam that she took a step closer to him, close enough so that their arms were brushing.

"I don't see why not," Adam murmured, avoiding her watch. He touched Hiro's shoulder to make contact and clarified, "Carp and I'll go. Then you two?"

The quartet collectively mumbled in agreement. Then, they stood around for an awkward handful of seconds before Hiro made an important declaration.

"Think of the _Nishi _Ward. That will make your jump more specific and increase the chances that we don't get separated."

Peter nodded and reached for Claire's hand. She clasped it tightly, fingers not laced but a nice feeling for the empath nevertheless.

Hiro slowly counted from three to one in Japanese before tightening his face and ripping himself and Adam away to Osaka. Peter and Claire were right behind him, sort of 'hitchhiking' on Hiro's slipstream. This also increased the chances that their little motley crew wouldn't be split up by this journey to the other side of the world.

Split up physically, _or _bodily, that is.

When all four opened their eyes, a bustling cityscape had bloomed before them. Neon billboards slapped with Japanese symbols popped like characters from a comic book. The streets were absolutely packed with businessmen and women, all with cell phones jammed into their ears. Everything out of their mouths sounded like gibberish to Peter and Claire. But to Adam, this was his home of long ago, and to Hiro, it was his home of today_. _

"Welcome to Osaka," the samurai announced. And he said it far more cheerfully than any of them felt.

xxx

St. Petersburg in the winter was without doubt the coldest place Sylar and Niki had ever been. To be frank, it was a living hell, just with ice replacing the flames.

Hiro had dropped them off in the middle of town square, not exactly sure where to put them. The samurai had hoped his friends would be able to crash at a hotel. But due to the time zone change, and their inability to _read _Russian let alone speak it (something they had unwisely overlooked), finding lodging in this snowy town was damn near impossible.

Niki clung to her partner's chest, his arm wrapped warmly around her frail shoulders. The woman half-wondered if this was how Joseph and Mary felt on Christmas Eve, turned away by all Bethlehem inns. She neglected to mention it to Sylar, though. She wasn't sure he'd appreciate the analogy.

Besides, the amnesiac seemed to have lost all mental function anyway. Though Niki was in _his _embrace, she almost felt like she was holding him up with her own body, as if she was a wall for him to lean against. Sylar hadn't injected himself with Adam's stolen blood yet, and was becoming weaker and weaker the more they wandered about this ghost town.

"Hey, baby, are you okay?" she whispered, giving his torso an experimental squeeze. Sylar opened his mouth lazily to reply, but nothing came out.

Very few people were out on the streets, and that was the fact that made Niki's heart clench when Sylar's legs finally gave way.

The last thing he did before passing out was groan, dry cheeks sticking to the slick frost which coated the ground. Niki hovered over him, gasping, cupping his face in her deadly cold hands.

"Sylar! Sylar!" she cried. Her confidence drained and she frantically looked around the street. "Help! Please, somebody help me!"

A Russian couple gave her a funny look as they walked past, clearly not understanding a word she said. They merely turned their faces away and pulled their wool collars closer to their ears, evoking a dry sob from the widow. Niki had hoped that despite the language barrier, her message would at least be clear. She was lying in the snow with an unconscious man, and neither one of them were dressed for the occasion. Shouldn't that have said enough without a single syllable uttered?

"Somebody help us, _please! _He's dying!"

They were running out of time. And right as Niki was about to fling Sylar over her shoulder fireman style and duck into the nearest indoor facility, allowed in or not, a dark-haired angel drove up beside them in a dull green pickup truck. He had been careful to brake slowly to avoid splattering Sylar and Niki with a shower of chipped ice.

"Great Lord!" yelled a thickly accented voice from the driver's side. Which was, naturally, on the right side rather than the left. "You need my car, Miss?"

Niki looked up and locked eyes with the curly haired youth who'd spoken. His English wasn't perfect, but it was still more than she could have hoped for.

"Yes, yes!" she hastily nodded back, gathering Sylar lopsidedly in her arms. "Oh, thank you so much!"

The young man climbed out of his car and held open the back door for her while she slid Sylar onto the torn leather seat. Not being in the most agile position, Niki decided to simply cram herself in the rear with her boyfriend, rather than untangling their limbs and taking the seat up front.

The unknown Russian boy quickly closed the door behind her, sealing in the heat from the truck's warm radiator. Niki welcomed it like the caress of a lover. Whoever this wonderful man was…God; she didn't even know how to thank him.

He got into the driver's seat and immediately cranked the engine back on. But before he could drive away to an unknown destination, two lost Americans in tow, Niki had to ask-

"W-what's your name?"

The man-boy glanced up into the rear-view mirror, meeting her eyes. "Ivan," he replied. "Or Van. You?"

"I'm Niki." She was out of breath from screaming on the street, but relief was washing over her as Van began to drive. "This is Sylar."

"He is wounded?"

"Sick. Not contagious, though."

When Van gave a little murmur of bewilderment, Niki backpedaled and restated her answer, to cross the speech obstacle better.

"Oh! He um…he can't make _you _sick."

Van was nodding, and Niki found herself nodding too, needing some sort of motion to keep her mind off Sylar's motionless body in her arms. He wasn't even shaking from the frost coating his thick eyebrows and lashes. He was as still as a dead fish, still as a dead _man. _She almost felt as scared as she did when Orson had killed Micah.

Once Van had been behind the steering wheel for a good two minutes, Niki felt safe to inquire, "Where are we going?"

"My mother and I have a house ten street lengths from here. You may come in, get warm." Van's eyes were locked on the road in focus as he drove the car carefully through icy obstacles that lines St. Petersburg's streets. Niki didn't need to see his face though. She was overwhelmed with gratefulness just at his words.

Loosely assuming that by 'street lengths' Van meant 'blocks,' Niki beamed and held Sylar tighter to her chest. She was warming up from the car's heater, but why wasn't he? "That would be _wonderful, _thank you so much," she breathed. "I hope it's not too much trouble."

Van was at a stop sign, and he took that opportunity to turn around in his seat. For the first time, Niki got a good look at his face. Strong jaw, thick neck, and pale blue eyes that were more peaceful than particularly striking. A mop of brown curls sprouting from his head in a bouquet of ringlets. He was probably around Micah's age, twenty maybe, half her own age and young enough to be her son. The thought both amused her and made her stomach lurch.

"It is fine, Nee-key. The house is large."

She couldn't help but titter at his butchering of her name, even with all her appreciation. She supposed that the duel vowels were hard to pronounce in his tongue.

"You can call me Nicole if you want," she said gently, still smiling that motherly smile which made anyone feel better.

"Nicole…" Ah yes, much better. Perhaps the full version seemed more like _Nicolas, _which she remembered as having some sort of Slavic/Russian origin.

Van blushed self-consciously before turning back to his driving, passing the stop sign and heading straight ahead to his house on the hill. And with all the blessings that had come their way in the past five minutes, all Niki prayed for was that his house, or shack, or studio…that whatever it was had a good central heating system. For someone who was trying to honorably save the world, was that really too much to ask?

xxx

"Ah, it even _smells _like I remember," Adam proclaimed, inhaling deeply and then letting it all out in a languid sigh. "Osaka, how I've missed thee."

Peter smirked at Hiro, noticing how the samurai held his sword justa little closer to his chest after Adam's chipper reaction to the new Japan. A few centuries separated these men and they were bound by one mission. But Hiro was a guy whose caution often bordered on paranoia. And he did _not, _and would _never _fully trust the man formerly known as Takezo Kensei.

"I remember what Orson looks like from the painting, and from that cell picture Sylar showed me," Peter announced, breaking them of tourism and getting to business. "I think I can locate him."

"This apocalypse is moving quickly." Hiro commented, arching a thin eyebrow. "Do you believe he's already here?"

"We're about to find out, aren't we?" Peter responded coyly. "And even if it is fast, we can always move faster. We're here and nothing's happened. Up to this point, we've beaten it. So far, so good."

"May I interrupt your twisted optimism to tell you to hurry?" Adam quipped. "I'm with Hiro on this one." He held his hands in front of him and rocked back and forth on his heels in a subtly irritating _so I'm waiting _gesture.

"Hey now, old-timer," Peter calmly retorted back. "Patience is a virtue."

"I don't believe in virtues," his father snapped, waving a hand. "Virtues don't win battles. _Believe _me, I've been there."

"Yeah," Claire, uninhibited, muttered, "because the British did _so _well in the Revolutionary War."

Adam opened his mouth in protest, but was quickly shushed by Peter. The empath had started on Molly's power, and needed absolute concentration. The immortal obediently sunk into speechlessness, feeling sort of hypocritical when the roar of the city sounded all around them. But Peter was a New Yorker. City sounds were comforting rather than distracting. He sometimes felt naked without them.

Peter's face was in a state of total relaxation: lips parted, eyelids untwitching, cheekbones slack. A hypnotic reel played behind his retinas as he searched out their next enemy. All he had to go by was a picture of Orson, but that's all he'd had with Leelee. And, that's all Molly Walker ever needed.

Plus, he had his dream too. If that dream had been, in fact, a correct representation of Orson himself.

"It's like we thought. He's in Japan," Peter finally announced, already sounding disappointed.

"What city?" Hiro pressed.

"Osaka."

The other three collectively cringed. Claire's face was steadily becoming buried in her hands. Hiro was the only one who could keep his voice even enough to question Peter again.

"Can you find the ward?"

Peter's bottom lip, the crooked one, twitched for a split second as he hesitated. "Jesus. Nishi. Here, in the Nishi Ward."

"Oh my God," Claire breathed, instinctively spinning around and searching the streets for Orson, even though she had no idea what he looked like. "If he's here-,"

"-then we need to get moving." Adam had ripped the words right out of her mouth. He rounded on his son. "What building is he in?"

Peter's breath hitched as the stress was starting to attack his nerves. "Uh…this big boxy building. Just like the one in the painting. He's crossing the street…"

"The Chinese Embassy!" Hiro piped. "That was the building in the painting."

Their resident empath opened his brown eyes and shook off Molly's power like he was shedding a layer of skin. He grabbed Hiro lightly by the arm. "Where is that at? How far?"

"Two blocks that way," the samurai immediately responded, pointing up the road. "You can't miss it."

"Let's go, come on…let's go," Adam murmured, brushing past Peter and Hiro and leading the way, hand already reaching for the revolver in his jacket's breast pocket. The other three exchanged exasperated glances. There was no way Adam could enter the freaking Chinese Embassy with guns a-blazing. Did he have any idea how many Chinese secret servicemen would be there, especially if a council meeting was going on?

Peter, Claire, and Hiro weaved their way expertly through the ocean of bodies, fighting to keep up with Adam's impossible pace. The tall man thankfully stuck out in this crowd, so they didn't lose sight of him. But keeping their eyes on Adam and keeping their hands on him were two entirely different stories.

It was the longest two blocks of anyone's life, especially for city boys like Hiro and Peter. But eventually, the structure from Peter's dreams and paintings loomed over them, just a J-walk away.

Adam was already running illegally across the street, maneuvering his way through speeding cars, taxis, and several Japanese versions of 'the bird.' The more honorable trio trailed behind, a constant stream of native apologies flowing out of Hiro's mouth at the irate motorists they were stalling. Peter's hand somehow found Claire's in this extended chase, and she never protested. It was easier to navigate the thick cloud of people this way. Claire would rather face this awkwardness than get lost in an Osakan stampede.

They eventually reached the seat of China in Japan, the Chinese Embassy. A red carpet stretched from the inside to the bottom of the stone steps, inviting in the luxurious and powerful. So there _was _a summit going on, clearly. What a _surprising _time for Orson to crash by and let some death fly.

The gigantic double doors were open and welcome to world leaders, but the band of mutants ignored that unspoken rule. All four of them charged through the front doors with reckless abandon, eyes flitting crazily around for a dark-haired Death.

And right as they caught sight of Orson slipping into a back room, giving them a little wink as he walked away, a dozen Chinese guards appeared out of nowhere, daring the quartet to continue.

xxx

Van, in his never-ending hospitality, had set Niki and Sylar up right in front of the fireplace. Which was even _more _comfy than Niki had hoped for, as well as the house itself. Van hadn't been joking when he said 'the house is big.' This house could almost pass as a mansion.

As the young man set up his acquaintances, one alert and one still asleep, with blankets and warm drink, Niki attempted to make small talk with him. She at least wanted to know a little bit about their hero of the day, even if they'd never see him again after this was all over.

"You said you mother lives here?" she confirmed. Van nodded.

"Yes. She is away on a visit to my aunt now. I am here alone for a few nights."

Niki let out a small giggle, holding up her mug of warm tea in a toast. "Hope we make good company."

"Yes. It is nice to have friends on a cold night like this," the blue-eyed boy concurred. He paused and weighed his next question before inquiring, "That man…he is your husband?" It wasn't a nastily meddling query. Niki could tell he was plainly being curious.

"No," she whispered, glancing up from Sylar to smile at the boy. "Not yet, at least."

"You are to be married?"

"No. Not engaged either." Niki shrugged, appearing more nonchalant than she really felt. "I just love him for now. We'll see how things turn out."

"Live all days like the last ones," Van beamed. Niki snorted gently and stared down into the depths of her warm tea. Whatever flavor this was, it tasted pretty good. She wondered if Van had added cinnamon, maybe. She thought she could taste cinnamon.

"Are you now comfortable?" Van asked her after a moment of silence. Niki looked up and smiled.

"Yeah, I think we're good. Thank you, again, for everything."

He blushed. "Anytime, Ni-cole. You are welcome."

The young man rose from the tiger fur carpet and smoothed the seams in his pants before striding away, presumably to go upstairs. Niki sighed and set down her cup of tea. Sylar was still unconscious beside her but his chest rose and fell evenly now, soothing her fanatical nerves.

The single mother mildly stroked his chestnut hair, humming a little to herself. Niki was tone-deaf, but the tune was sort of supposed to resemble _"I Want To Hold Your Hand"_ by The Beatles. It was playing in the car radio on her and Sylar's first date, and had kind of become their song.

Whether it was the McCartney melody or her gentle caress, Sylar's eyelids started to quiver. Niki removed her hand to give him some room.

"Where are we?" he gasped, rubbing a brittle and calloused palm over his frostbitten forehead. Niki shushed him and helped him sit upright, already pressing the edge of her mug to his lips. Sylar groaned, confused, and managed to grab hold of the cup, tilting it back so a slosh of warm tea hit the back of his throat. He choked, not being on best terms with surprises at the moment, and Niki offered him a couple slaps on the back to clear his coughing.

"You passed out on the street," Niki began. Her hand was once again brushing his hair back. It had become habit by now. "A boy named Van picked us up and he took us here, to his house."

"What makes you think we should trust this _boy named Van_?_" _Barely awake and Sylar was already solving puzzles. Niki sighed, and was frankly a little offended on the Russian's part.

"He's nice. He's hospitable. Don't worry about it."

"He happened to find us on the street and he _happened _to speak English?"

"Sylar. Just because you had a bad experience with Orson doesn't mean that you shouldn't trust anyone." He was pushing her to the edge between acceptance and chiding. "This might come as a shock to you, but sometimes, miracles _do _happen."

"To otherpeople," he murmured back, placing his hands closer to the fire. "I've explained to you many times about my relationship with karma."

"You're a good man," she assured him softly. "I'm sure you've paid your penance by now. This whole teleportation poisoning is a bitch in itself."

"No need to tell me twice," he agreed. Her words reminded him of the source of this fatigue, and the items Peter had thrust into his hand the night before. The items which now remained most likely frozen and cracked in his pocket.

"Oh no…" He slid a hand into his trousers, fearing the worst. Could the glass vials of Adam's blood handle below freezing temperatures? And what about the blood itself? If the cells froze and died, would the healing ability become obsolete?

But when he pulled three shining vials and a syringe from his pocket, he was relieved to see that everything looked perfectly intact. The blood was warm and liquefied. The glass was unscathed. The needle was still in place.

Niki, however, was a little worse for wear.

"Sylar, what is that?" She already knew the answer. She just didn't know how the hell…

"Peter…stole it."

"From Adam's _body_?"

The taller twin shifted sheepishly, Van's rug wrinkling underneath his bottom. "Well, he can stop time."

"But you'll become immune."

Sylar shook his head, ready to debunk that theory as he was already filling the syringe with blood from a vial. "No, no. I've only had it once. I should be fine. I'm glad we held off on it in Cairo. My body's back to normal now."

"I don't know how to give a shot," Niki quietly admitted, but Sylar was on top of that too. Why was she surprised? Sylar could figure out anything. It was that intuitive aptitude of his. He could look at a situation and see all the achievable ways to get out of it, all the endings. All in a split second.

The way his mind worked…it was extraordinary.

"I've never given one either, but my knowledge of basic anatomy should be a good indicator." Sylar's brow was furrowed in concentration as he readied the needle. After flicking the tip to make sure it was sharp, Sylar moistened his lips and stripped off his jackets, revealing pale, hairy, vein-stitched arms.

After tapping the underside of his forearms a couple times to raise the veins, which drew a wry 'junkie' comment from Niki, Sylar slid the tip of the needle under his skin, penetrating a blue snake in his wrist. A small bubble of blood emerged from the prick, but was sucked back in when Adam's regenerative essence soaked into Sylar's system. When the vial was empty he removed the syringe from his arm, gladly seeing that any sign of the shot disappeared with a small stitching of skin.

Sylar took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, instantly feeling better. This stuff was like coffee mixed with narcotics. The perfect cocktail for anyone in need of a pick-me-up.

"It's a shame that Adam's so selfish and private," he commented forlornly. "This stuff could cure millions of cancer victims."

"That would be kind of cruel," Niki quietly pointed out, picking at a piece of rich fur on Van's rug. "All that _magic _would have to come from one man. That's all he'd be doing, all day long. Laying around and having his blood sucked out of him. He's not a _well_."

Her lover understood and respected her point, even if he was pretty indifferent to the subject of his father.

"I suppose you're right. You do tend to be a pretty accurate moral compass."

Niki grinned in a rare show of self-indulgence, even if it was in jest. "What would you do without me?"

"I'd still be living in Boston in a house I hated, penniless and heartbroken and probably back to ripping people's heads open." Sylar's large palms moved to her shoulders, and he was already pulling her on top of him before he'd even finished his statement. He closed his eyes and dragged four fingers over the back of her neck, preparing for the kiss she was about to press down on him.

"Congratulations, Niki Sanders. You've successfully saved me."

xxx

"You have to understand!" Peter insisted desperatly. "There's a man in here who's trying to _kill _one, or all, of your leaders. Can't you take that seriously?!"

Adam and Hiro were shouting similar words in Japanese, and between the two languages, the multilingual guards had heard enough. Claire's face was screwed up as a headache began attacking her temples at the booming surround sound of gibberish enveloping her.

The largest guard of the bunch, whose shoulder patches identified him as the leader, stepped forward. "We are very concerned with the safety of our superiors. But unless you have actual proof of a threat, we cannot delay the duties of our leaders."

"Please!" Claire was begging too now, shuffling her way between Peter and the captain. "It's another disaster, like the bay of blood, and the meteor in Cairo! Don't you watch the news?"

Apparently, that declaration was enough to throw the guardsmen into absolute guffaws. Claire gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to totally deck one of them in the face. God, if only these idiots _knew._

They had to be realistic though. If, two weeks before, someone had gone up to her and said that a random assassination was going to occur because someone _plotted _a recent meteor attack, she would have sent them away for drug testing. Because these were some seriously cracky words coming out of her mouth.

"We're going to have to ask you to leave now," the captain firmly intoned, pushing a large hand against Claire's sternum. The other guards did likewise to Hiro, Peter, and Adam, despite Peter's rabid protesting.

At least they'd gotten out of there without anyone noticing Hiro's sword, which was strategically strapped to his back. It was angled in such a way that unless he turned directly around, no one would even know it was there.

"Dammit!" swore Peter when they ducked under an overhang that was devoid of the crowd. He kicked a pebble viciously across the sidewalk like Charlie Brown. "What now?"

"We teleport inside," Hiro suggested. "If you can't do it the easy way…"

But before he could contribute an ending to his casual fortune-cookie wisdom, the ground rumbled under their shoes.

Adam frowned deeply and grabbed a jut in the wall, using it as a balance. "What the-?"

He too was cut short by another tumble of the earth, this time more violent. The crowd around them had stopped in place and was staring around, equally as bewildered. Everyone waited for something else, and just when the coast was finally clear, just when people were starting to walk again…

_Blam. _

A new shock exploded beneath the pavement, strong enough to knock half the people their right off of their feet. Including Claire, who was deftly caught by Peter's strong, skillful arms. She was too confused and alarmed to thank him, however. And the smooth voice behind them only made things worse.

"Earthquakes aren't really my style, but after that incident in Cairo….well, I had to think of something that _couldn't _be stopped, eh?"

Adam, Hiro, and Claire did a U-turn to meet an unfamiliar character. But Peter knew that long black hair and those piercing eyes. He knew it from his, and Sylar's, worst nightmares.

"Oh, were you looking for me?" Orson asked innocently, spreading his palms. With a sudden movement he swung his arms, clapping his hands together once and erupting another crack of the tectonic plates.

Peter's stomach did an absolute back-flip as he lost his footing and hit his mouth on the concrete. Because as soon as he tasted the dirt on his lips, as soon as the growing screams around them reached his ears…he _knew_ that they'd been tricked.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	18. Calamity

Chapter Eighteen

**Written for missioninsane prompt "Declarations of Love" **

**Chapter Eighteen**

"**Calamity"**

"Fooled you, huh?" Orson drawled, swaggering towards the band of unlikely heroes. Claire and Adam immediately withdrew their guns, Hiro his sword, and Peter a hand stocked with an army of powers.

Huxley was not fazed by their weapons, just like he was totally unmindful of the hell unfolding around them. They were under a metal overhang on the city sidewalk, but the road itself was crammed with crashed taxis, abandoned cars, screaming locals and warped concrete. Peter, Adam, Hiro and Claire had to bend their knees to keep balanced. But to Orson, that too was natural. He paced about their environment as if he was merely against a blue screen, a figment of light layered over a background of alarm.

Peter's shadow Petey held on to Claire, ready to spring into action in case the girl fell or was trapped under a falling rock. The building beside the Chinese Embassy was old and crafted in a sand-colored stone. All five of them- four heroes and one villain- could hear little pebbles beating down upon the tin overhang as the structure crumbled apart.

"Stow your pathetic arsenal," Orson continued, scoffing. "Even if they could kill me, my plague is already enacted. Try _shooting_ at a 9.5, or stopping it with your little superpowers. Forgive me while I snicker."

Adam ran a thumb over the top of his gun, clicking the safety off. "Wanna bet, you bastard?"

And then he fired.

Yet Orson's control of the earthquake was stronger. A particularly jolting rumble jerked his hand up right as the trigger was pulled, and the bullet went from aiming at Orson's heart to his shoulder. Still, it clipped the reaper enough to make him cry out and clutch the wound, and ashy hole forming at the penetration point.

He appeared shocked and disgusted at least, for once put down a notch. Men like Orson were supposed to heal, but Adam's holy water bullets had apparently overwhelmed any of Orson's many abilities.

Not waiting around for a second act, both Adam _and _Claire fired another set of slugs, with Peter throwing in a flying blast of ice. Orson was quicker this time though, turning into a smog of flying black smoke before any of the attacks could hit him.

The smoke traveled over their heads and landed ten feet behind them, Orson's gaunt frame reforming from the airborne ash. His arm was still injured.

"It's already too late!" he screamed viciously. "You fools messed with me when you stabbed Leelee Lang in their heart, and now you have to pay your penance. There's no escaping what you deserve!"

"Ah, heartbroken are we?" Adam sardonically growled, gun still heroically raised. "What a _pity._"

"You know nothing about her, or me," Orson spat. "Who says that you wouldn't do the same thing?"

That statement hit a chord with both Adam and Hiro, though Peter and Claire were oblivious to the history behind it. The whole reason that Adam became Hiro's enemy in feudal Japan was because Adam had lost the woman he loved. Not to death, like Leelee, but to Hiro of all people.

Whether Orson had amazingly found out about that, or if he was just guessing, none of them knew. Yet that proclamation was one of the few things he could have said to make the immortal hesitate, giving Orson the opportunity to pull one last stunt. Because Orson, though psychotic and reckless, was all the same very clever. He took one final look around at the devastation he'd created before absolutely exploding in a burst of ebony fog. Adam hissed and covered his eyes, ducking away from the essence of death, while Peter and Hiro did the same. But a dull _thud_ beside them proved to be foreboding.

When the air finally cleared, Peter glanced down in horror and saw Claire unconscious in Petey's shaded arms. Her mouth hung open lifelessly and her skin had been painted a sickly feverish color. The quivering of her eyelids proved she was still in the living, but by barely a thread.

"Claire!" Peter cried, lifting the young woman out of his shadow's grasp. He ignored the increasing tempo of rocks beating down upon the overhang and bodily shook the girl, _shook her _to save her.

"Peter…" Hiro warned slowly, eyes rising to the metal ceiling. Dents were starting to form and the metal groaned.

"Claire? Claire, wake up. C'mon, wake up!"

"Peter!" Hiro's voice was frantic now as he could see actual tears forming in the overhang. "Peter, move!"

But right as Hiro stepped forward to grab his distracted best friend and pull him out of harm's way, the sheet metal broke with an ear-shattering eruption. An avalanche of rocks rained down through the torn tin, piling on Peter and Claire like a tumbling house of cards.

Peter grunted in pain and surprise, feeling at least a couple hundred pounds of dead weight landing on his feet. Luckily, they hadn't been entirely crushed. A small pocket of air had been left inside due to the varying shapes and sizes of the rocks.

And Claire was okay, considering the circumstances. Safe in his arms and concussion free, even though ailment still claimed her.

"Peter!" howled a lightly accented voice from the outside. "Peter, I will teleport inside, and-,"

"Hiro, no!" Peter's voice was muffled from under the jagged wall. "Take cover! We'll meet up later!"

"But-!" Another landslide of rubble swept down, just missing Adam Monroe and Hiro Nakamura. The blonde man was tugging on his rival's sleeve, trying to obey his son's orders. This was not the time or place to be a hero. They needed to move along, at least for the time being. From the way things seemed, Peter and Claire weren't going anywhere soon, and they'd need Hiro later.

"GO!" screamed Peter. "I'll see you later! Go!"

"Come on, Carp!" the immortal murmured. His hand was on Hiro's sword strap to keep hold of the samurai in the mad crowd, making Hiro grossly uncomfortable. "Listen to the boy! Let's go!"

Reluctantly, Hiro took one last look at the pile of debris before grabbing Adam's arm and following the blonde's lead. They hopscotched their way through bodies and the remains of great architecture just like thousands of others on the street, all trying to find some safe haven in this maelstrom of hell.

xxx

Peter and Claire were trapped in a dark vacuum of solid earth, with more dust saturating the tiny air space than actual oxygen. Peter held Claire closer and turned his head to violently cough, regenerative lungs not immune to the airborne dirt.

Claire was still unconscious, or mostly so, in Peter's embrace. He found it hard to make out her features in the darkness, but he knew her skin and eyes had been stained a grim yellow. She was dying, rejuvenation aside, and unless the earthquake stopped and Adam could get through soon.

Orson Huxley's power was beyond belief. Leelee's had been disturbing, and Edmund's was baffling, but what the reaper did in this day surpassed any stretch of their imaginations. In addition to causing a devastating quake, he'd also put an immortal girl inches away from death's door.

Which made Peter wonder- why were he and Adam not sick? They shared the same ability. And Hiro, who had no healing hand, stood perfectly fine as well. It didn't have to do with gender; Micah had been killed in this method as well. What was the specific of Orson's ability that was so hit or miss?

Peter stored that thought away to muse with his friends if he indeed got out of this alive. The shaking of Osaka continued to ravage on, pouring sand upon his head as if he was in the middle of an hourglass. As the rumbling persisted, screams elevated, and the sounds of buildings collapsing sent pangs through Peter's core. He couldn't teleport out though, not with Claire in this fragile state. Physically moving the rocks while the earth quaked would end in dire results, probably making more of a mess than in the first place. He was completely and utterly stuck for the time being, and could only get out once the tremors had subsided.

So he passed the time by turning his heart to Claire, whispering despite the loudness surrounding them. The cave-in sort of blocked out a lot of the outside panic, but not enough to keep Peter in ignorant bliss.

"I don't like this, Claire," he mumbled against her ear, one hand absently stroking her cheek. "I remember what it felt like to have you die in my arms. I don't want that to happen again."

He sniffed and tightened his cradle. Claire's lifeless lips were near a pulse point on his throat, and he could faintly feel ragged breaths escaping her. It was a bittersweet relief, that at least she was still here a _little. _Claire was a fighter, dammit. _His _Claire was a fighter. And he prayed to God, or _the _Gods, or whoever was up there that…if there was a time to bring back the Claire he knew and loved…to bring back her fire and spirit and emotions…this was undoubtedly that time.

"I remember being in that Limbo place too. It wasn't Hell, officially. I think it wasn't supposed to be. Hell is kind of…dramatic. Gimmicky. Like a really big-budget horror movie with 'the works' you know? It's supposed to scare the shit out of you, and it does, but everything loses its shock value after a while.

"But Limbo wasn't like that. It wasn't supposed to scare, it was supposed to demoralize. And that was so, so much worse. You can't just get over that kind of hurt. I could get used to having my arms hacked off in Hell. But I could never get used to missing you in Limbo."

A single teardrop fell from his eye and ran down the length of his nose, gathering at the tip before dripping onto Claire's collarbone. It was wiped away by a wash of slippery ebony, and Peter quickly realized that Petey was in there with them, curled up in a little ball and pressed against the rock wall. Thank God for that, at least. He'd just got his soul back- he didn't want to be severed from it again.

"It was nine months without you. I think it would have killed me if I wasn't already dead. And I didn't have the luxury of ignorance, like you did. I didn't have _happiness _just running through my veins. I could remember all of my life, all the people I'd lost. I could _miss _people. It was just like being human, except for an eternity. And seeing as we're gonna live forever anyway, maybe we're still here in Limbo. Maybe it's all the same.

"But I can't have you do that to me again. I can't live without you." He paused, and almost inaudibly confessed, "I love you, Claire."

Claire's head moved just a fraction of an inch and she softly moaned. It was loud enough for Peter to stop in his rant and look down at her, stunned. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to understand his words quite yet. Hear them, take comfort in them, but not remember them later. It would be like reading his farewell letter before she was ready.

After a second of stillness, Claire slumped completely again, head lolling on Peter's shoulder. He nearly sighed, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He wished he could sleep, or at the very least, slip off into some alternate mindset. Anything to escape this moment of ultimate horror. They'd come so far and prevented so much. They'd killed Leelee and Edmund without much effort. _How _did this happen? It all occurred so fast and Orson slipped away like a pillar of smoke…like the angel of death…

And then it everything around him stopped. The earthquake, the cries of distress, everything. It was as if someone had flipped a switch and shown Osaka some mercy. Which probably meant that Orson was a thousand miles away by now, leaving Japan behind in the ruins.

For now, Peter had bigger problems then the Grim Reaper. He had been preparing to escape on his own, but it seemed like he was about to have company.

"PETER!"

The empath raised his head, blinking wildly in the darkness.

"Adam?" he hollered experimentally. His voice sounded weird. There was no echo, like he was screaming in space. "Adam? Hiro?"

The sound of tumbling boulders made Peter scoot back into the far corner of this little alcove. He suspected that his friends were trying to dig him out, but that could end up making things worse from the outside.

"Guys! Hold on, wait a second!"

Claire whimpered and stirred in his arms, roused by all of the noise. He quietly shushed her, pushing her back into slumberland while he attempted an escape.

Peter swallowed to clear his throat. "Adam and Hiro! I need you to stand back! _Way _back, you hear me?!"

A clipped British voice asked, "What exactly are you planning, Peter?"

"I'm gonna blow us out of here," Peter breezily replied. He could imagine the wide-eyed look on his father's face, but was satisfied with the shuffling of boots that he heard as his friends did as instructed.

"Are you far away yet?"

Adam and Hiro yelled vaguely back, and at that distance, Peter couldn't make out exactly what they'd said. Good, though. They _were _far. Because this was going to make quite a mess.

Peter took a deep breath and held Claire tighter, covering her skull in a protective body shield. Breaking out of here would require an experimental blending of two powers that he hadn't yet tried. Peter rarely used more than one power at a time to begin with, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Luckily, both of these powers came from the same benefactor- Sylar- which made them a lot easier to summon at once. Peter's tongue flitted over his lips, smoothing away the hairline fissures, and he began to summon radiation and telekinesis from the base of his brain.

_One…_

Every pore on his body warmed with nuclear heat, engulfing him and Claire in a throbbing orange cocoon. Neither one was burned by it however, as Peter added a shielding layer of telekinesis underneath it, defending the girl from the toxic waves.

_Two…_

He focused on expanding the red globe, filling up the entire cranny that they were currently jammed into. Petey flattened himself underneath Peter and Claire, protecting his durable shadowflesh from the heat. His human host, Peter himself, gritted his teeth and zeroed in on one final action. Exploding.

_Three. _

Letting out a fierce yell, Peter propelled the dissolvable radiation outward using the under layer of telekinesis, vaporizing everything in its path. The orange wave of nuclear energy rippled forward a few more feet before dissipating in mid-air, leaving Peter, Claire, and Petey curled up in a now open alcove.

Adam and Hiro clumsily crossed the street, side-by-side, climbing over debris and fallen citizens. Peter forced himself to sit up properly by the time his friends made it over, Claire's sallow-skinned and limp body continuing to sag in his arms.

Adam got to his son first, skidding the final five feet on his knees. He brought a hand to Peter's cheek and checked automatically for bruises, even though the empath could heal just as well as Adam himself. Then, the blonde laid eyes on Claire, and he nearly began to shake.

"What happened to her? What's wrong?"

Peter was stuttering. "I-I'm not sure. Orson, he exploded and she just collapsed before the rocks came down. She's been fading in and out, and her pulse is so slow…"

"Shh, shh, calm down. I'll fix this." Adam had his Doctor Voice on, despite his lack of a medical degree. He was already reaching for a syringe in his pocket, something that he never seemed to be without on this mission. However, the needle was unsurprisingly bent and broken from all the running and tumbling Adam had done avoiding the earthquake.

Before the man could even mutter a swear, Peter raised a finger and telekinetically severed the top of the needle, leaving it shortened but sharp and as good as new.

Adam smiled briefly, restlessly. "Thank you, Peter."

"But how will this work?" Hiro frowned. "Claire has your ability, and your blood. If healing could take care of this sickness, wouldn't she already be okay through her own power?"

"Claire's power is much less _mature _than mine. Her blood is not a universal cure yet," Adam reminded his Asian friend. His eyes narrowed in concentration as he filled the Plexiglas compartment with his blood and removed the prick from his vein. "To be realistic, I'm not one-hundred percent certain this will work either. But it's worth- pardon the pun- a bloody shot, isn't it? Perhaps instead of _healing _Claire, this will simply give her power the boost it needs to take care of itself."

Three supermen watched on in anxious anticipation as the needle slid under Claire's skin, infecting her body with a miracle. It took a moment for her to react, but eventually her skin returned to a normal pallor and a deep breath filled her throat.

Peter nearly wept with relief, and it looked like Adam was close to doing the same. The girl's body racked with a couple mild coughs before her eyelids tiredly fluttered open, landing on Peter and only Peter.

She didn't blink. For a moment, the men were worried that the transfusion had flopped, until she eventually moved her arm. Claire's hand rose up to the cheek of the man who was holding her, the man who trembled with nerves and overwhelming emotion.

"Peter?" she whispered, and it was full of more passion that he'd seen from her all week. Not only was her skin and body alive, but her eyes were brimming with vitality and life_._ _Love. _And in that moment, Peter wondered if perhaps she _hadn't_ been comatose when he'd spilled his heart out. That maybe, she'd been listening, absorbing his longing into her own to make a new heart bloom in her chest.

"Hi," he muttered back, laughing weakly. Her hand pulled down slightly, bringing his face with it, until their foreheads were gently touching.

And just when he was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss her on the lips, she passed out in exhaustion.

xxx

Niki was right by Sylar's side when he awoke again, in the Russian morning. The widow was up and awake, watching him sleep by the fire. She'd been curled against his side at one point, sleeping too, but since waking had retreated to a close-by recliner.

Sylar yawned and pushed himself off the fur carpet, propped up in what resembled a push-up position. He always slept on his stomach for some reason. Niki couldn't fathom it.

"Good timing, sleepyhead," she commented lightly. "Van just finished making breakfast."

"He shelters us _and _he cooks?" Sylar smiled in disbelief, rolling over onto his back "Why don't we have more Vans in America?"

Niki shrugged. "Because it's America."

She offered him a hand and effortlessly pulled a hundred and eighty pounds of manoff the floor. Sylar's grin was still not tarnished. Niki never ceased to amaze him.

"Where's the kitchen?" he mused. "In the southern wing of this_ estate_?"

His girlfriend poked him in the ribs. "No.In the _northern _wing."

She giggled and linked arms with him, subtly leading him towards Van's dining room, which wasn't nearly as decadent as they made it out to be. In fact, he sort of had an eat-in kitchen, complete with a plasma screen TV hooked up over the outside door. The Russian equivalent to 'The Today Show' played as background noise.

The boy himself was seated at the bar, the plate in front of him full of some unconventional breakfast food. Sylar had sort of expected, stupidly, to have toast and grits waiting for him. On the contrary, there was lots of sausage, potatoes, and some things that he could even recognize.

"Good morning," Van cheerily said, turning around on the barstool to face his house crashers. "Hungry?"

"Starving," Sylar admitted. He cocked an eyebrow towards Van's plate. "What exactly do you have there?"

"There is, eh…bread…bleu cheese and pork casserole…some beef brisket."

"Brisket for breakfast?" Sylar exchanged a glance with Niki, whose mouth was practically watering. "I think you've officially won us over."

"Help yourself," the blue-eyed boy grinned, pointing to the still-warm skillets on his oven. Sylar rounded the bar and headed to the cooking area, grabbing a plate on his way.

"If you don't mind me asking, Van…how exactly did you afford all this?"

Niki shot him a reproachful stare, but Van didn't seem to mind. "My father died when I was very young. He owned an oil company. Not exactly what you would call a saint of virtue, but he certainly provided for us. Even after all these years in the grave."

"Nice," Niki smiled. "And it looks like you turned out alright."

Van shrugged. "I am a night bartender now, and I want to go to college soon. But the circumstances are just not right at the moment."

"Good luck with that," Sylar said genuinely, but his eyes were facing his food. Niki could read his mind. If the mysterious War character had his way with St. Petersburg in two days, Van would probably have to wait a _long _time to achieve any personal goals.

A loud blip came from the television, turning all three comrades to look at the news. Every word on the screen was in rapid Russian, so Niki and Sylar couldn't understand the words. However, pictures were universal.

Van stood from his chair, having understood the news first. "God in heaven…look."

Sylar and Niki didn't need to be instructed. Neither one could tear their eyes away from the crisis on screen. The crisis in Osaka, Japan, where an earthquake had half-demolished the city. The B-roll footage was almost unwatchable, especially when the camera panned to a beaten-up young man carrying an unconscious blonde girl in his arms.

"Peter," Sylar husked. "This is Osaka, isn't it, Van?"

The Russian boy glanced towards him, surprised. "Yes. You understand the language?"

"No." Niki gravely reached for her beloved's hand and fiercely entwined their fingers. "We just know."

xxx

Hours later and Claire was still in Peter's cradle, sleeping much more healthily and beautifully in his arms. The empath sat on a cracked stone stoop of a library. Or, what was left of a library. Toppled shelves and random leafs of paper were piled for almost an acre behind him. He fought not took look at the damage, to only look at Claire.

Adam and Hiro were around, and now within sight. Hiro worked as a translator while Adam offered his healing blood to anyone in need. After a couple hours of such relief work, the immortal was looking a little puckish and dazed, not used to being sucked dry like this. At his clinic in San Francisco, a lot of his patients were treated with previously withdrawn blood that they had stored away in cryogenic freezers.

At that time, it was Peter's responsibility to look over Claire. Hiro and Adam called when they needed him to lift a boulder off someone, that sort of thing, when he was within yelling distance. Mostly though, for the good part of the afternoon, Peter had simply laid upon these concrete steps, back leaning against a pile of rubble, a lovely blonde girl curled in his lap. Neither one looked Park Avenue at all- ripped clothes, dirty faces, skin stained with dried blood- though the few people that did pass their way didn't give them horror-struck looks. Generally they were ignored, but the occasional passerby had tipped their hat in mourning or offered a little bow. To which Peter would just solemnly nod back.

Unexpectedly, Adam's cell vibrated in his pocket. Peter's eyebrows rose and he maneuvered under Claire's body to get to it in his pocket, having nearly forgotten that he even had the phone. Because Peter, being dead a week before, didn't have a phone of his own, Adam just loaded his son his Katana for this adventure. The fact that it had survived this chaos alone was beyond belief.

Peter coughed and flipped open the ultra-thin phone, pressing it to his ear. "Hello?"

"_Peter!" _

The man immediately sat up in recognition, causing Claire to slip a little off his shoulder. He gently hauled her back up, close to his chest.

"Oh God…Sylar?"

"_Yeah, it's me. How are you? Is everyone okay?"_

Relief gave Peter a chill. "I'm okay; we're all here. We'll be fine."

"_I saw you on the news. It looked like Claire was hurt."_

"No, no, she's okay." Peter looked down at the girl in question and moistened his chapped lips. "Orson made her sick but…Adam…Adam healed her, you know? It's good now."

"_You don't sound so great, Pete."_

Peter sniffed, trying to slow down his stammering tongue. The last thing he needed was Sylar's worry.

"It's just the dust, man. It's _everywhere. _I can barely breathe here."

"_I saw it. It's horrible._" Sylar's voice was even lower than usual, full of remorse for people he didn't even know. Peter bowed his head, supporting it on one palm, trembles of regret shaking in his gut.

"I know. I don't think there's anything that we could have done differently, either. This guy's just too powerful." Peter swallowed and sat back up, wanting to change the subject. "How are you guys?"

"_It was rough at first, but a Russian boy took us in. We're at his mansion now."_

Peter smiled somewhat. "Mansion? I guess you've got a little bit of good karma left, huh?" He could hear a thickly accented voice humbly protesting in the background, as well as Niki and Sylar exchanging words. Sylar uncovered the mouthpiece and turned back to Peter.

"_Well, 'very large house' as Van insists. Not quite a mansion. But when you come to Russia, that's where we'll be. It's in north St. Petersburg. And we warn you- it's colder here than you could ever imagine." _

"I'm not sure when that's gonna be, truthfully. It's such a mess here. I sort of want to stay in Japan and help the city recover, but…" He sighed, finally at a loss for words. "I don't even know. I've gone through a lot of stuff before but this…I can't get my mind around this at all."

There was nothing but static on the other line until Sylar tentatively asked, "_How exactly did it happen?"_

Peter slumped back against the stone and curved his face towards Claire, letting his lips rest on her crown. He merely croaked, "The son of a bitch tricked us, and we fell for the bait. Simple as that. It took a grand total of five minutes."

"_I'm so sorry, Peter. Orson is impossibly cunning. Believe me- I know." _A heavy muffled burst erupted, telling Peter that Sylar had sighed. The background voices of Van and Niki were hushed. "_I wish I could have been there." _

"Don't you…don't even worry about that. It wouldn't have made have made a difference. We could have brought everyone we _know _down here and it wouldn't have changed a thing. All I want you to do right now is lock your doors and stay inside, because I think Orson's already moved on to Russia."

"_It's alright," _Sylar said, and Peter could almost sense his brother giving that reassuring smile. _"I know how to be invisible, so to speak." _

"Good," Peter said softly. He smiled sadly, still buzzing from reprieve to hear the sound of his twin's voice. After this disaster, after almost losing Claire again and being bothered sick about Sylar's condition in another country…it was nice to know that everyone he cared for was taken care of.

Adam and Hiro were approaching his stoop, having helped as many Osaka citizens as possible. Peter blinked, a little more alert, and spoke back into his phone.

"Hey, I gotta go right now, but I'll see you soon. I promise." The blonde man and the samurai were getting closer and Peter quickly blurted, lowly, "I love you, okay? Stay safe."

"_You too, Peter. On both counts._"

Peter let out a half-chuckle, half-sob, and flipped the phone shut as if it had frightened him. He inhaled sharply and dropped the cell on the step beside him, abandoning it for the time being.

It didn't stay there long. As soon as Adam had reached Peter and Claire, he bent over, picked up his miraculously well-working Katana and pocketed it.

"Who called?" he casually inquired. Peter looked up resignedly at his father. Adam's face was even more bone white than usual, the bags of blue under his eyes almost alarming.

"Sylar, in St. Petersburg. He and Niki are doing alright. This guy is keeping them in his manor house."

"High class," said Adam, interested. "At least we'll be comfortable when the world ends."

Hiro sat on one of the lower steps, sword gripped between two calloused hands. "I've been wondering about something. Since Orson escaped today, does that mean we will be fighting him _and _War in Russia?"

Peter cast a sober peer towards the destruction around them. The destruction caused by _half _of that horrendous duo which Hiro spoke of. "I think we should assume the worst."

"Perhaps we should go after War and leave Orson be," Hiro suggested. "I feel that without a plan or direction, he is harmless. After this all is over, than we can chase him down and be victorious."

"No. He harmed Claire," Adam said bitterly. "She's one of us. We cannot let that go without a fight."

"I still don't understand why she got sick in the first place," Peter mused, a little grousy. "She can heal, just like us. Why did it affect _her?_ And Micah, too…"

Adam looked skyward thoughtfully at the grey clouds hovering over Osaka. A light drizzle of rain was starting to come down, and a couple drops landed on his forehead and rolled down each cheek. Like the tears of a Virgin Mary.

"Hiro, how many siblings do you have?"

The samurai glanced at Peter. "Eh…one. My sister, Kimiko."

"She's older than you, isn't she?" Adam had his, as Claire called it, _I know what you did last summer _face on. It was a pair of blue eyes and a slashed mouth that could stare right into Pandora's Box.

Hiro frowned. "Yes. How do you know?"

Adam didn't answer right away. "You, Peter. You and Sylar had siblings too. The 1700's, I had two children with one of my earlier wives."

"And?" Peter questioned sharply. He'd been through enough today without wading through one of Adam's labyrinthine explanations.

"I had an older brother who died as a young boy back in England," Adam rambled on. "Niki, she had a sister, right? An older sister?"

"Jessica," Peter nodded, beginning to catch his father's drift. "Yeah, and she died a long time ago too."

"Well what about Claire?" Adam finally pried. "Only child, is she? _First born_?"

"Not an only child," Peter murmured. "She has two little brothers. But yeah, you're right. She's first born."

"Is that significant?" Hiro asked bewilderedly. Adam and Peter glanced at each other and the empath waved a hand, more than happy to let Adam continue on his bulletproof theory.

"It goes back to the story of Passover, Hiro. Basic Christian mythology. When Moses tried to free the Jewish people from Egyptian slavery. Moses spoke for God, and a series of plagues were cast upon Egypt. And after every plague, Moses would demand of the Pharaoh Ramses to let his people go."

"What were the plagues?" Hiro asked.

Adam rubbed his stubbly jaw. "Moses turned the Nile red with blood. He sent fiery hail plummeting from the skies. Locusts, famines, frogs, sickness, boils…but none as bad as the last. For his final plea to Ramses, Moses said that unless the Pharaoh let his people go, one new plague would devastate the Egyptian people. And that plague would be directed from Pharaoh's own mouth. Not taking the prophet seriously, Ramses ordered that the first born of Israel would be murdered."

Hiro arched an eyebrow. "That wasn't very smart, was it?"

"Of course he nailed his own coffin," Peter interjected, recalling the story more from Cecil Demille's _The Ten Commandments _than any actual Bible study. "As punishment, God sent the Angel of Death to kill the first born of _Egypt _instead_. _The 'angel' was a cloud of smoke, and if it touched you and you were first-born, you died instantly. The Israelites protected themselves by covering their doors with lamb's blood. Passover refers to the angel of death _passing over _their homes."

"Don't you see? That sounds exactly like Orson's ability," Adam finalized. "He's an angel of death."

"Well…we don't know that for sure," Peter said fairly. "He could be _posing _as one. Sylar told me he's schizophrenic. Maybe when his abilities manifested, he sort of escaped reality and took this avatar of Death. Leelee and Edmund were killed pretty easily. You'd think Horsemen would be tougher than that."

"Whatever they are, they need to be stopped." At Hiro's statement, all three men nodded unanimously.

"At least we have one thing on our side," Adam commented. "If Orson can only kill first-borns, then most of us are safe from his ability."

Peter's expression was grave. "Don't get cocky. I'm sure if he puts a gun to your head and pulls the trigger, you're gonna be dead whatever age you are. And Hiro's right. He's gotta be stopped, regardless."

"We have two days before everything goes amiss in St. Petersburg." Adam was recalling the painting, where it seemed like a New Year's Eve celebration had been crashed in favor for war at Palace Square. "I think it would we wise if we caught up with your brother, Peter. It will give us more time to strategize."

"We can't just leave Japan in ruins like this," Peter mildly protested, giving Hiro a compassionate gaze. The samurai's poise had remained throughout this crisis, but it was clear behind his eyes that he was devastated. This was his home and all that was left was rubble and blood. Peter could relate on a certain level. He'd almost destroyed New York City once upon a time, the place of his birth and his life. It was a desolate, unbearable feeling unlike any other.

"What can we do?" Adam spread his arms helplessly. "What's happened here has happened. It's terrible, but we've lost. And we should head up to Russia to prevent another tragedy so more lives are not taken."

Peter looked up at Hiro again, grey in his eyes. Rather than the immortal or the empath, Peter really felt like the Japanese native should make the choice. This was his country, his homeland. Whatever he wanted was probably the best.

"I agree with Adam," he surprised Peter by saying. In a rare show of companionship between the two rivals, Adam raised a hand and placed it warmly on Hiro's shoulder. Hiro added, "Relief will come to Osaka in other forms and we have done all we can. St. Petersburg needs us more now. We are its only hope."

Peter agreed without delay. He was weary of Adam, but he trusted Hiro Nakamura with life and limb.

"Okay. Then I'm in. It'll be nice to check on Sylar in person, anyway."

"Right," piped Adam. "And Claire could use a nice bed to rest in. We all could, eh?"

For once, Peter was not offended at Adam's concern over Claire. It was clearly a platonic worry of an ally rather than the obsessive protectiveness of the smitten. Peter, quite frankly, agreed with it. Because even though Peter didn't know what had occurred between his lover and his father, he was pretty sure that Adam had finally waved the white flag. Whether it was lost hope or Claire's own refusal, who knew?

The world would buckle with devastation at what had occurred today, but like disasters past, they would unite to help their fellowmen. Humans could be very selfless when the time called. And on a day like December 29, 2013…Peter wasn't smug enough to believe that he was supposed to be the hero this time.

But Russia _was_ their responsibility now. Because if pattern was right, the next person they'd be fighting was War. And he was the worst of all.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	19. To Russia, With Love

**Chapter Nineteen**

"**To Russia, With Love"**

To say that Van was startled by the sudden onslaught of people in his house that night was an understatement. He was a hospitable boy, sure, but it's not like he was running a bed and breakfast.

The Russian's jaw dropped when three men and an unconscious woman suddenly apparated into his house. Sylar and Niki rushed forward to the familiar motley crew, exchanging hugs and endearments and saying each others names or God's. Van was unmistakably helpless, standing alone and awkward off to the side as he watched the reunion like a fly on the wall.

Thankfully the one man he knew, Sylar, had enough decency to introduce the group.

"Everyone, this is Van," Sylar said, pointing towards the brunette Russian. Van chewed his lip. "He's a local. He's letting us stay here."

"Actually," Van spoke up in his throaty voice. "I'm sorry, Sylar. I hate to be bad about this but…I just…I cannot handle all these people. You and Nicole are fine but four more?"

"We can pay you," Adam offered, glancing at the gold-leafed ceiling. "But you really need that, do you?"

Peter took the debate as an opportunity to set Claire down on a couch, tucking all limbs in like she was a sleeping cat. He briefly caressed her cheek and then rose to meet the others, who were quickly entering a more ferocious debate.

"Hey, hey, calm down," he said, holding up two palms and standing between Van and the others. "If they guy wants us to leave, then we'll leave. It's his house. We do what he says."

"All the hotels are filled though, Peter," Niki desperately informed him. "They're all packed for the holidays. We don't have anywhere else to go." She turned to Van, outstretching her hands sympathetically. "We're really sorry about this, but there's no other choice. Please, Van. We'll all stay in the same room if we have to, and we'll stay out of your way. Just _please _give us a roof over our heads_._"

"And do keep in mind that we have many abilities beyond your control, Master Van," Adam abruptly said with a flash of the barcode on his wrist, drawing the appalled attention of the others. It was hardly the time for such terrorization. "If you do not bend to our will, you will regret it."

"I am a smart man, and good in a fight," Van snapped boldly. "Your threats do not scare me. They only make me want you to leave my house more."

"Listen, everyone," Sylar hollered, his tall head and low voice shushing up the mini-crowd. "There's no need for violence, or threats. I'm sure we all can come to some sort of a compromise."

"Oh, how about this for your _compromise_?" Adam muttered, before withdrawing his pistol and firing one time, straight between Van's eyes.

The Russian was dead before he hit the ground, crumpled body in a grotesquely unlifelike position. Niki gasped, hand over her mouth in horror, while the three other men stared at Adam in utter disbelief.

Peter was the only one unable to contain himself. With a roar he sent a powerful blow, superpowers abandoned, right to Adam's cheek. A satisfying_ crack _sounded when skin met skin. The punch threw the immortal man to the ground and broke his jaw, which Monroe angrily tried to relocate.

"He didn't deserve to die!" Peter bellowed. Niki and Hiro held him back from landing any more hits. He struggled, but mostly succumbed to their restraints. Internally, Peter knew they were right.

Adam spit a wad of blood onto the floor and wiped his mouth. His eyes were cruel slits of icy crescent moon. "He got in the way. Haven't you ever heard of survival of the fittest, sonny?"

Peter's teeth were bared. "This isn't evolution, Adam! This is murder of an innocent boy!"

When Adam was finally able to sit up, he calmly retorted, "He'd probably be dead anyway. If we don't stop this plague like we failed in Osaka today, his life would be washed away just as easily."

"You don't know that," Peter seethed, shrugging off his friends' strongholds. He turned his back on his father, grabbed Sylar by the arm, and began haphazardly pulling his brother towards another room. "You have no idea what you've done, Adam."

xxx

Mohinder Suresh had a nasty bad habit.

Not drinking, not eating chocolate cake, and not watching _General Hospital: Nightshift _(though he did do all three of those things in moderate amounts). No, this was more of a _pattern_ than a habit, and it had unfortunately yet to be broken.

It all started with Mira, back in India. Sweet girl, smart girl, his childhood dearest. A sweet, smart girl who ended up becoming an even better scientist than Mohinder himself. She'd offered him a job once on a visit to Madras, but his affections (and the impending Kirby Plaza situation of course) got in the way.

Then there was Eden McCain, or Sarah Ellis as her real name went. She was a spy for the Company, but his unofficial lab assistant for a few weeks. Unlike Mira, he actually _had _a slight relationship with Eden, before she went and got herself killed.

And now, following in the footsteps of all the other scientific women/love interests that Mohinder had worked with, he had Evie Motte. Tall, wry, darkly Gothic in an elegant sort of way. She wore all black, but it was never _chains _this, and _piercings _that. Evie always looked like she was about to go to cocktail hour in velvet vests, matte leggings, dark mini-dresses. Hardly appropriate clothes for lab work, but Mohinder's flamboyant scarves and neon sweaters were pretty equal on that particular scale.

But most importantly, Evie was the first person Mohinder had ever met who actually had the balls to smack him on the side of the head and bark, "You're an idiot!"

Frequently.

There was something about her though, pent up passion in their love/hate relationship which somehow made them like unable to keep their hands off each other. It puzzled Mohinder to no end. He'd never in his life been so physically attracted to someone, and so _emotionally _unattracted. Cause Evie was mean to him! She told him when he was wrong! How could he possible find that alluring?

Even still, he gave in the end. Suresh tried to keep his secret from Molly by constantly shoving money in her hand and telling her to go shoe shopping, but she wasn't stupid. Not to mention that she could see where anyone was and what they were doing at _any _time of the day. Hiding jackrabbit sex from a girl equipped with a power like that was futile.

When Hiro had dropped Micah off at his house while they went to go save the world, Mohinder was even more pissed. Because not only did he have to hide his _flagrante delicto _from the kids, but he also had to make sure that _they _weren't doing anything.

Mohinder and Evie, and Micah and Molly eventually came to some sort of roundabout truce. Each respective couple was allowed face time, but never at the same moment. The hormones from _that _would be enough to get Mohinder the Lizard riled up.

It was mid-morning in New York when Molly and Micah were lounging in the living area, suffering through yet another audio hour of _The Mohinder and Evie Make Out _show.

A distracting volume of moans, thumps, and the sounds of chairs being knocked over reverberated throughout the entire house. Molly had pillows pressed against each of her ears, and Micah was just curled up next to her on the loveseat, shaking his head.

"Will you quiet down, Dad?" Molly finally yelled, voice traveling down the hall. "I'm about to barf!"

There was no answer, but thankfully, the noises did cease to a dull roar. The girl slumped, slowly closing her eyes.

"I hate my power right now," she seethed. "Hate it, hate it, hate it."

Micah's mouth screwed up noncommittally. "Did you ever consider talking to Mohinder and telling him to dump Evie? If you don't like her, I'm sure he'd put you first."

Molly snorted. "It's not her. Evie's cool and all, just not with Dad! I love him to death, but he's the dumbest 'smart' person I've ever met. Evie's way out of his league. Plus, she's probably going to _die. _That seems to be the pattern with these lab assistant chicks."

"I kind of know what you mean. Imagining my mom doing…that…with anyone. Ew…ew."

"Especially Sylar," Molly snickered. "He's so _big._"

Micah stuck out his tongue, gagging. "Thanks for the metal image, Molls." Once his sweetheart's giggles had subsided, Micah did admit, "He's a great guy though. I'm glad my mom found him."

"I'm glad Dad's happy too," Molly confessed. "But could he be _happy _in that way without letting me and half the apartment building know about it? There are some things that daughters do _not _need to know about their fathers. I like just assuming that he's a monk with no bodily functions."

But a man that she had _no _problem imagining suddenly dissolved into their apartment at that moment, a scared-looking boy around their age in his grasp.

Molly immediately stood up from the couch, restraining herself from wrapping the man into a hug. "Peter? What's going on?"

"Hey, Molly. Micah." He quickly turned to the boy he was holding upright. "Can I talk to Mohinder?"

The teenagers glanced slyly at each other. Molly finally piped, innocently, "He's in his bedroom."

Peter nodded and gently set the mysterious boy down in a leather recliner. Both Molly and Micah eyed him in interest and Peter briskly explained. "This is Van. He's from Russia and he's just gone through some really traumatic stuff. You…uh…can understand, Micah."

The knowing look that he directed towards the Sanders boy was enough to explain everything. Van had the same shell-shocked look in his eyes that Micah did after being killed and then coming back to life. At was quite a jolting experience the first time around, and even Peter could relate a little bit.

Leaving the Russian to socialize with Micah and Molly, Peter headed down the hallway towards Mohinder's room. And unfortunately for his eyes, he didn't bother to knock.

What was unfolding before Peter was something guys should never see their other guy friends doing. A dark-haired girl had the Indian man totally pinned to a wall and was viciously attacking his mouth. Peter sighed and tapped his knuckled twice against the doorframe, drawing the girl off of the geneticist.

"Peter!" Suresh exclaimed, nearly tripping over a nightstand in his attempt to push Evie off. "What…what are you doing here?!"

Evie's eyes brightened and she interrupted the empath. "Oh, you're Peter Petrelli? Mo told me all about you. Your power's bitchin'."

Peter smiled warmly at the woman. "Thanks, but uh…can I borrow _Mo _for a second? Just…little…quick…" He grinned cheekily and grabbed Mohinder by his collar, brusquely pulling the geneticist out into the hallway.

"Who's the dominatrix?" Peter asked, evoking Mohinder to scowl.

"She's not for hire. Technically, that is. I mean, she does work for me, but…"

"Oh, don't even get me started on how wrong that is," Peter groaned, and it seemed as if his friend didn't want Peter to 'get started' on that subject either.

"I'll pity you," Suresh growled. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Vatican City."

Evie had left red lipstick all over Mohinder's face, and Peter found it hard to take his friend seriously during his explanation. Though, since the world _depended _on it and everything…

"We were. Then we moved on to Cairo, and Osaka. Now we're in Russia. The reason I'm here _for you _is because I brought this kid here named Van. He's around Micah's age, twenty I think. He's in your living room now."

"What exactly are you asking me to do?" Suresh slowly inquired. He already knew the answer.

Peter dithered. "He's a really nice boy, Mohinder. He took us in and Adam killed him because he was 'a liability.' Luckily, Sylar and I were able to save him, but we have to hide him from Adam. The best place I could think of was here."

"I'm not a babysitter, Peter," Mohinder cried, his British tones becoming even more piercing than usual. "First Micah, now some stranger? What am I, the daycare for evolved humans?"

"I don't have time to argue this with you," Peter said seriously, intentionally staying mellow and couth. He wasn't feeling up for a firefight today with one of his own friends. "Send him to Nathan, or Marty, or your friend Nirod in India for all I care. Just keep this kid safe, you understand?"

Mohinder opened his mouth to continue protest, but Peter had already teleported away by that time, leaving nothing behind but a warm imprint in the carpet.

xxx

Claire Bennet woke up in a strange bed, still dressed in the tattered clothes from her morning in Osaka. She stirred groggily, the last few hours appearing in a blur before her eyes. The earthquake…and Peter…

The young woman sat up, exploring the contours of the mattress with her fingertips. Wherever they'd taken her, it was definitely plush. There seemed to be no lack of style these days with Adam's wallet in their company.

This place was a lot more homely than the average hotel room, though. It didn't resemble a suite at all, really. There were too many personal belongings around, pictures on the wall and a stack of well-thumbed books on the table. On closer look, she saw that each novel was written in Russian, or maybe Czech. The alphabet looked like upside-down English.

She wasn't too surprised at that. Wasn't the next 'disaster' in St. Petersburg anyway? Yes, that was probably where she was now. _Definitely _so if the chill lingering in the room had any impact on her verdict.

Claire sighed and rubbed her face with the back of her hand, wiping off a layer of soot. She had no concept of time, having jumped from one corner of the globe to another…four times now? Three times?

God, this saving the world stuff just kept getting harder and harder.

A glass of water had been left on the table next to her, presumably by Peter. She smiled a little at the thought of him as she reached for the cup, but stopped halfway there. A memory occurred to her, a sudden flipping of a switch inside Claire's chest that made her stop and review the status quo.

Peter, in Osaka, buried beneath a suffocating wall of rubble, had held her in his arms and whispered more lovely things in her ear than she'd ever heard him say. He was an empathetic man, and a dreamer, but he wasn't a sap. Confessions of simple love came easy and frequent from his lips, but anything more deeper or specific…he, like most human beings, had trouble with such statements.

She rubbed her temples and forced herself to remember specifically what he'd murmured. He had talked about Limbo, she remembered. Missing her in Limbo. How he couldn't stand to lose her again. Anything more detailed than that was lost for her mind.

Yet, not for her heart.

A pain, a deep and throbbing _ache, _attacked her chest, nearly making her keel over. She hadn't been awake to experience or remember it before, but now it was unavoidable. Her heart beat red instead of black and white as everything was suddenly _right._ Her entire torso churned with confused feelings, emotions that she wasn't sure were her own. They all swarmed around her like memories from dreams. They were echoes of her past life, and wasn't yet sure how solid any of them were. Did these feelings have basis in stone, or was it all just meaningless fluff filling her from head to toe?

Claire drew her knees to her chest and felt something in her pocket jab at her leg. She frowned for a brief instant in confusion before the veil of recognition was raised. It was Peter's letter, the one she'd been putting off reading. And like a sign from God, she was reminded of it in this desperate moment of doubted faith and bewildered love.

Was it time? If she opened that paper and absorbed the words, would they really have an effect on her?

Claire bit her lip as she considered it. It was a good test. A good test as any and the only gauge she had right now. Plus, some part of her worried that if she didn't nail these feelings into the ground immediately, they would slip away again by the next time she woke up, dissolved away as a simple missed opportunity.

No. No, she couldn't have her admiration for Peter, and Sylar, and everyone back just to let it poof away. She had to read the letter. It would be the foundation for the house of her heart.

Hands shaking, she reached into her jeans and pulled out the multi-folded leaf of notebook paper. Every crease she unfolded made her stomach tighten until she wondered if she'd actually _shrunk. _

_Now or never…_

And with a deep breath, Claire took the plunge.

_And for Claire…there's a few things I want to say to you too._

_So. Hello, beautiful. _

_I'm not really sure where to begin, because is this is one of the most difficult things I've ever had to write. There's so much I want to say, but I don't really know how to __write __any of it. I never sound like 'me' when I write, you know? It always comes out really formal and depressing, so if you want to slit your wrists after reading this, I probably won't blame you. _

_So…thinking about what's going to happen to me...about how I have to leave you and Sylar behind here. I know how much that's going to hurt you, and it only makes me wish I could do this another way. I would do anything to protect you, Claire, to keep you happy. And causing you pain like this shames me and hurts me as well. But please understand that this is the way things have to go. I'd rather have you keep me fondly in your memory for eternity as a hero than have you watch me through the struggles that might have come up. I'm convinced that complete success and happily ever after just isn't an option in a situation like ours. Sophia Linderman wants me dead and she's a tough broad. She's not just gonna get on her knees and let me win. _

_But despite this hardship, I can still dream that whatever you end up making of things, you're content. Date some more, have some kids, or enjoy single life till the day you die- do whatever makes you happy. (I personally recommend skydiving. Hell, you can heal. Why not?)_

_I have a keepsake for you, a gift for being there for me for…so much. It's a box, back in my closet at Boston. Sylar knows where it is. Inside are all the journals, receipts, pictures…records of everything we ever did together. I thought you might want something a little more solid to remember me by, especially because a lot of it you've never seen before. Read those journals, every page. I want you to know the last half of the puzzle, everything I was thinking during the times we shared. I was amazed by you even back then, as I am now. I was __in love __with you then, and that's why I had to run away. I couldn't bear to watch myself turn into something that could taint you._

_More importantly, I want you to fish around that box and find a ring. You'll know it when you find it. It's the only one in there, and____it has your name engraved in the middle (along with a bit of a message from me). Keep it, it's yours. I always planned on giving it to you when the time was right, and I hope I've lived up to the inscription on the inside. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to, but please, at least take it and keep it safe. Regard that as one of my final wishes. _

_Ah, look. See, depressing? Sorry about that. Just…when you think of me…don't think about this messed up world, or Sophia, or any of the stuff we've had to go through in the past two weeks. I want you to think of our first conversation in that jail cell. About lunch at Rafferty's. About our __wonderful __trip to Emerald City. About all those encouraging winks I'd give you at Nathan's get-togethers from the other side of the room, whenever you'd get stuck in conversation with some eighty-year old supreme court justice. We've got more great memories than I can even remember all at once, let alone name. And that's one of the reasons I'm giving you the box. So you can always think of the great stuff and ignore the bad. _

_I'm the stupid coward who didn't sweep you off your feet earlier. But I'm also the man who loved you in paint before I even met you for real, and who would die for you without thinking twice about it- which is the reason why we're here today. You've asked me a thousand times what you, the cheerleader, had to do with saving the world. I never had an answer before._

_But now, I know it- Because you're more worth saving than anyone I've ever known. _

_The only thing I've ever wanted was to be a hero. I thought I could just __**do **__something, like pull a cat out a tree, and that would do it. But you've taught me that it's more than that. I'm never truly a hero until everyone can depend on me, remember me, trust me. And I hope that over the past few days, I've earned that from both of you, Sylar and Claire. To be a hero in your eyes is enough to satisfy me for a long, long time. _

_I love you both. Always. Take care. _

The last time Claire had cried at something Peter had written was four years ago, when she'd held his runaway note in her hands. But she set a new benchmark this time, because her eyes were positively raining tears, smearing the already faded ink of Peter's farewell letter.

It was even more open than what he'd said to her in Osaka. This…this was pure, unfiltered…she didn't even know a word for it.

But as she'd hoped before unfolding this treatise of yearning, this _had _been the right time. She was vaguely happy that she'd preserved the sanctity of Peter's note. The thought of reading it and not feeling anything was even more depressing than her original lack of heart.

And also as she'd hoped, those emotions swimming inside her were not fleeting. They absolutely _burned _with strength, as though her life was ignited anew. Like a first kiss after falling irrevocably in love, particularly with a man like Peter.

Claire wiped her eyes with integrity and pocketed his letter once more, now beginning the impatient wait until she saw her hero again.

xxx

Gabriel Monroe stood in the darkness of a hallway and wondered. Wondered about the future and whether or not it was truly written in stone. Wondered about their alliance with Adam and how violent his father had suddenly become. Wondered about the fate of their friend Van, and if he would ever be safe.

But most of all, he wondered about the vial of blood in his pocket. First there were three, and now there was one. A single tube that could make the difference between someone's life and someone's death.

What was he going to do with such a thing? Keep it to stop himself from aging with time? That's what Peter had originally intended it for, and it wasn't like Adam was a fountain of youth that they could just stick a syringe in anytime they wanted. Especially because Adam would scorn them if he ever found out.

What about letting Niki live forever? Or what if, in a few years time, he had to save Molly or Micah from the Grim Reaper? From Orson again.

Sylar pulled out the little vial and flipped it over and over again in his hands, watching in dry fascination as the maroon liquid sloshed to the cap, then to the bottom. He could drop it right now if he wanted to. Just end the whole thing. Not have to bother with thinking about it. Yet that would most certainly cause for a regret at some point, plausibly a regret that could haunt him for the rest of his life.

Sometimes he wished he was like Hiro or Peter, able to jump years ahead in the timeline. But from what he'd witnessed of his friends' travels, they couldn't unravel the tapestry of the future any more than he.

Thus, Sylar stopped his flipping of the vial and gripped it with one firm hand, not enough to break it. He turned his face away, upward, and slid the vial deep into his right pocket where it belonged.

From his spot in the shadows, Sylar could see his brother passing by the hall, head bowed and hands buried into his pockets too. Yet there was no vial of miracle blood in Peter's trousers. Merely that blasted engagement ring that he couldn't stop thinking about. Sylar appreciated its sentimental value, but Peter was starting to become obsessed with it.

Then again, who was he to judge, seeing as he had something in his own pocket just as meaningful.

"Peter!" Sylar called in a stage whisper, beckoning his brother over. Peter raised his chin and approached, both of them soon masked by the darkness of the antechamber.

Sylar touched his twin on the shoulder. "Is Van alright?"

The empath nodded. "Yeah, he's a little freaked, but he'll live. Thanks to you."

"He didn't deserve to die. He's a sweet kid; wants to go to college. I couldn't let Adam get away with it."

Peter's teeth were scraping at the inside of his mouth, a bad habit that had accumulated after many years of stress. "I didn't think Adam was capable of that," he admitted. "Never in a million years."

"We were both violent men once. Anyone can be capable of that," Sylar reminded him. "I know you're idealistic by nature, Peter, but please don't be naïve. I already made the mistake of trusting someone I shouldn't have. It nearly cost Micah Sanders his life."

"I guess," Peter replied quietly. Then, he became a little more animated with the passion he'd restrained in New York. "I had some problems with Mohinder, though. I mean, I understand that we're dumping a lot of unexpected stuff on him, but this is so much _bigger _than what we want and what we don't want. I wish he would just suck it up for _one _time."

"Don't be too hard on him," Sylar gently chided. "Sometimes I think he feels out of the loop because he doesn't have abilities. So, when we do try to include him, it feels forced. He's just the babysitter, which isn't 'significant' in his mind. On a more important note…there's something big I should mention to you, concerning our healing on Van."

Peter forgot all thoughts of Mohinder. "Yeah?"

Sylar was suddenly uncomfortable as he removed a single vial of Adam's blood from his pocket, just enough so Peter could see it. "I've only got one left. One healed me after the trip and one went to Van."

"What are we going to do?" Peter asked solemnly. "I don't think I could get away with stealing anymore of it. Adam seemed like he was on to me the first time. "

The possibility of a future without Sylar nagged at the back of his mind. And Sylar, even though he wasn't a mind reader, could absorb Peter like a well-written book.

"I suppose I'll just have to keep it safe," Sylar replied. The corner of his mouth curved up and the warmth was infectious. Peter was half-smiling too when he touched his brother on the shoulder, squeezing slightly just to remind Sylar he was there.

"Just don't forget to keep yourself safe. After what Adam did to Van, I'm a little worried about everyone in the house," Peter said sincerely, before letting go of his twin and continuing down the hallway. And he didn't look back.

xxx

Claire was still unconscious when Peter entered her room, doing his hourly check on the girl. All the other times, he'd merely poked his head through the doorway and made sure she was still breathing. But burdens of the day and weights on his feet drew him softly inside, and he silently closed the door behind him. Plus, he also had an armful of Van's mom's nightclothes, which he intended to leave at the foot of the bed for her.

She looked so passive in sleep, the most restful that Peter had seen since the revival. The soft parting of her dry lips was the final straw that drew Peter in, made him sit down next to her on the bed. And it was the light wisp of blonde, a single lock falling in her face that made him brush back her tresses and not want to stop.

"Are you gonna sleep forever?" he murmured, fingers trailing lightly over her hair and chin. Dirt was still matted in her blonde locks, and her clothes were still torn from the earthquake. She was a queasy reminder of what had happened earlier that day, and Peter didn't want to associate failure with Claire.

He bit his lip a little wryly and pulled himself entirely onto the bed, now totally parallel to her. She slept evenly and soundly, almost as if she was…acting. Peter arched an eyebrow and softly blew on her cheek, experimentally.

"Claire?" he husked, the breath cascading against her cheekbones. "Are you really asleep?"

She didn't wake. He snorted a little nervously.

"I'm gonna take your clothes off, okay? They're really dirty. I think you'll be more comfortable in something clean. If you're completely against that, wake up now and stop me."

He pretended not to see a sly curling on the corner of her mouth. Yes, she was definitely awake, but she could use sleep as an excuse of ignorance. However, Claire didn't know that Peter was cleverer than she gave him credit for. Knowing her intentions could lead to some fun tests of willpower.

"Okay. Shirt first. Hope you're okay with this."

Peter's hands were shuddering as he slowly unbuttoned her top, pushing open every clasp until the blouse was splayed like the thighs of a paramour.

He swallowed and tried to think of another, more innocent analogy. Nothing came, and nor did any protest from Claire's asleep-but-not-really body.

Leaning over her, he gently pulled off her sleeves and tossed the bedraggled shirt to the footboard. It was unsalvageable by even the best seamstresses and cleaners, and would probably wind up in the garbage by the following morning.

Peter then moved on to her pants, a black pair of skinny jeans that fit like a second skin. His mouth dropped into a slash and he vaguely wondered how difficult this would end up. It wouldn't be like pulling off a pair of sweats.

After a moment's contemplation, Peter finally moved his hands to her button and unclasped it, revealing the top hem of her underwear. For the thousandth time, he glanced back up at her face, wondering if she really was just pretending. This was starting to make him feel somewhat sick with nervous butterflies. He hadn't felt this uptight since he was a teenager.

This was _Claire _though. His Claire. Definitely nothing he hadn't seen before here, and he trusted her judgment. Somehow, this was what she wanted.

He folded up her jeans once he'd slowly removed them, and sat them next to her discarded shirt. She now lay asleep and only moderately covered before him, beige bra and black panties protecting her modesty.

All her undergarments survived the wreckage of course, so he saw no reason to be _that _bold and remove them. Peter merely sat back and studied her for a moment, and how much younger she looked when all those layers were peeled away like an onion's skin.

As if on cue (and she somewhat was), Claire made a soft mewing noise, coming into consciousness. The sound practically melted Peter's heart. If only it could have melted the snow outside, because the first thing out of her mouth was, "It's cold."

Peter chuckled and replied, "It's Russia. And you're…half-naked."

Claire glanced down at herself, clad in nothing but underwear. Her eyes then rose to meet Peter's, her expression playful. "Hmm. How?"

The young man was so surprised by her carefreeness that he went for honesty, and he handed her one of the matriarch's nightgowns to cover herself, if she did please. "I thought you'd want out of your old clothes." He pointed to the pile of dirty rags on the floor that used to be Ralph Lauren. "You might want a shower too."

Claire smiled dreamily and offered a tired nod. And though they sat in silence for several long seconds, her gaze stayed eerily trained on Peter's eyes. He smiled sheepishly and looked to the comforter, trying to evade her hypnotic stare.

"What?" he asked fairly, daring to peek up at her.

The blonde woman was still beaming like a newborn sun. "I...nothing. I just feel really different."

Her cloud nine syndrome mixed with the events of the last twelve hours immediately sent off Peter's panic alarm. He leaned forward and grabbed her shoulders, nervously checking her face for signs, any sign that she'd been body-snatched Stepford-style. Adam's blood…God…what if it had reacted differently on her than it would on normal people? What if Adam's blood had given her a false sense of love and hope?

"Are you okay?" he blurted out and Claire giggled, gently pushing him away. Her hands were lightly on his chest, but she strangely didn't remove them when they'd separated.

"I'm fine. Great…actually." Her smile morphed into sort of a curious frown as she laid eyes on her hands, which were slowly roaming over Peter's clothed torso. Her fingertips explored every bone, every rib, every crevice as if she was touching him for the first time. Peter didn't move to pull away. There was nothing better than the feeling of Claire's hands on him.

Finally, a bit of the Disney persona started to wear off. Claire raised her face and looked at him more seriously, admitting. "You know…when I was out…I heard you talking to me."

Peter's stomach flipped with pleasurable anxiety. "Words, or just the sound of my voice?"

Claire smirked, hands traveling up his chest to link behind his neck. She audaciously began to inch forward until their noses were brushing and his breath was hot on her lips.

And just like he'd said to her during their rendezvous in the gym…

"Everything."

This was their third kiss since the revival, but it practically erased the so-so boards. Peter sighed against her warm mouth, feeling every drop of emotion that Claire had lost seeping back and forth between them. This was…this was real. Claire was back, and she was kissing him like it was the last and first time they could ever be together.

His hands fell to her waist and he held her closer, close enough so not even a fly could breathe between them. Sharp fingernails scraped at his scalp as her hands grabbed a hold of his thick locks, demanding and needy and lovely and oh-so passionate. It was like a gate had been blow open in Claire's chest, letting all of those pent up feelings out after a lifetime sentence in misery.

Peter vaguely felt guilty about this sidetrack, about forgetting their crisis to lie with Claire. But that tinge of regret only lasted a moment, a quickly turned into defiance. Because even though the world was falling down around him, he was going to enjoy this. He earned the right to enjoy this. After all they'd been through, before, during, and after death…_they _both had earned this.

Claire deftly pulled him on top of her, her back hitting the bed with barely a _thud. _Peter's hands managed to find their way on top of her hips, palming the warm skin he'd longed to feel for months. Limbo, in addition to allowing human depression, was a sensory deprivation tank. The touch of a woman, his woman, practically lit him on fire with pleasure, even if it was so simple and modest like this.

Peter's body relaxed against her, enough for her to continue and pull his undershirt over his head. Claire ran her hands from his neck down to his navel, marveling at the smooth curves and muscles of his torso. She could feel his heart racing under her palm, the frantic thump of anxiety.

The pair had a stark contrast against each other, all glowing blonde X and crushed black Y entwined in the same bed. Claire kneaded his back and shoulders and grinded her hips upward_. I won't break,_ she had told him a thousand times. _Don't worry._

And he could finally respect that. Before, when Peter had tried to force Claire into a web of protection, they'd both ended up dead. But he respected her more now; he knew how strong she was. Claire was old enough and powerful enough to make her own decisions.

Plus, knowing for a fact that she was gonna make it through the next thirty-five years didn't hurt either. That visit to the future had undoubtedly evoked pain, but it proved to be rather uplifting in other parts.

Their few remaining clothes were tossed away, just like the meaningless fights and stabs that had flown between them in the past few days. None of that mattered anymore. They were both fixed now, back to normal, back in love as though it was all new again, and every petty insult was carefreely forgiven.

Peter never idealized lovemaking in flowery terms. He enjoyed it for what it was, and enjoyed it even more when he could share it with Claire. But damn…this time, being encompassed by the woman beneath him felt like coming home. Their bodies fit together perfectly as usual like a lock and a key. Yet this time their minds were entwined too. And no random barrage of lust could duplicate that sort of wonderment and intimacy.

She pulled him to her breast afterwards and simply held him there, letting him recover while the sweat cooled on his back. Peter's breathing was labored and harsh against her bare shoulders, though after a few minutes, the exhalations slowed and he shifted position. Claire let out a soft whimper, but Peter was quick to wrap an arm around her, pulling her to his side, letting her curl in and rest her head on his chest.

Claire was asleep before she even got the chance to say "I love you."

xxx

**To be continued…**


	20. Frost And Steel

**Written for mission_insane prompt "Paranoia"**

**Chapter Twenty**

"**Frost and Steel"**

A forest fox is in the winter snow, orange except for a dust of white around his muzzle. Peter Petrelli is stopped in the archway of the palace, on the divide between out and in. He is in and the creature is out, cunning head cocked up towards the empath.

Petrelli frowns and slowly kneels down, outstretching a hand. The fox is obedient despite its craftiness, prancing over as soon as it sees the flesh peeking out from Peter's fingerless gloves.

The dog doesn't bite or lick, like Peter expected it to. It simply sits down two feet in front of the man with the sword, pale blue eyes staring up in interest. It's waiting for an order.

Peter nods, figuring it out like a puzzle. He reaches into his pocket to find a dog treat or something, but all he pulls out is a silver engagement ring that he used to see on Angela Petrelli's bony hand. He shrugs and gives it a good throw, the metal landing soundlessly in a snow drift.

"Go fetch?" Peter says experimentally.

The fox barks sharply and does a one-eighty, already leaping towards the shiny object. Peter smiles after it. He does love obedience.

Footsteps sound behind him before he can watch the result of the dog's quest. The empath's face screws up in tension and he grips his sword, still Hiro's sword, tighter. And with the careful silence of a samurai, he turns around to meet his visitor. And his jaw drops.

Peter is looking at himself. Yes, his own face, gaze full of brutality.

He's not quite sure how this happened. Before, he was prowling along the frost-covered tiles of St. Petersburg's winter palace, the howling of a blizzard wind pounding on the glass. And lazy encounter with a mysterious fox stopped him here, face to face with his own likeness.

His doppelganger is unarmed. More like his _real _self. He's vaguely reminded of himself in the showdown against Orson. Peter fancies that the man in front of him probably looked a lot like that, hand outstretched and ready to strike, eyes narrowed but secretly scared.

"What are you doing?" his avatar speaks, and Peter glances down at his sword. He shrugs, not really knowing what to say to that.

"Doing my job," he finally drawls, boredly so, as if talking about the dull snow pouring outside. The Peter in front of him takes a step forward and the dream's first-person persona is not intimidated. The normal Peter continues his interrogation, but with a lowered hand. This unarmed man nearly seems scolding, chiding. Like a conscience.

"You're War, aren't you? That's why you betrayed everyone."

The Peter with the sword frowns a little, a bit of his knowledge of reality seeping into the dreamscape. He looks skyward towards the domed ceilings, to the angelic paintings etched into the sky.

"I didn't betray anyone." It's a rather honest response. He can't remember being a backstabber. "And I'm not War."

The doppelganger scoffs. "Sure. Then why are you carrying that sword around? Last time I checked, that's the symbol of the final Horseman, right?"

"Hiro carried this sword. Does that make _him _evil?"

"You know it's different." The other Peter is advancing now, mahogany eyes dark in the dimly lit corridor. "You stole that from him. And then you killed everyone who trusted you. Is that how you want to be remembered? As the snake of the apocalypse?"

"Shut up," Peter snaps at himself. "I'm a hero. Always have been. And powerful enough to be God."

"You were corrupted," is the seething reply. "You haven't been noble for years. I'm not even sure if you were ever really that _heroic _to begin with."

"SHUT UP!" Peter repeats in a shout. One arm is already extending to thrust his sword into his own gut. Yet his mirror-image is quicker with a blast of telekinesis, sending him and the katana flying across the room.

And when Peter collapses roughly in the corner, he lands right on his coincidentally erect sword, the blood-slicked blade sticking right out of his chest while the world becomes blotted with darkness.

xxx

In real-time St. Petersburg, the actual Peter, no evil twins attached, awoke with a loud gasp. He was sitting up in bed, a cold sweat drenching his bare body from head to toe. Labored breaths attacked his chest and it rose and fell in rapid succession.

The dream had always been here in Russia. And almost always, he'd had that sword. But never had Peter encountered _himself _in one of the nightmares. It sort of made him wonder- did his avatar represent the _real _him, or was it a corruption of his subconscious? The cricket on his shoulder keeping him in line, or perhaps the miniature demon egging him on towards downfall?

He buried his face in his hands. This dream had occurred over four times now, and it still didn't make any more sense. Damn hindsight. That was the _only _way to figure it out.

A soft mew sounded next to him, along with the ruffling of the sheets. Peter's nightmare had not only awoken him; it had also aroused the consciousness of his bedmate.

Claire. And man, was that the one thing that could make him feel better in a moment like this.

"Peter?" she mumbled. Claire turned over and reached out, her tired eyes still closed. "You up?"

He let out a heavy breath before grasping her outstretched hand with his own, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Peter knew his face was difficult to see through the dark, but he tried his best to morph his features into reassurance. It was true, after all. All the dreams had caused him terror, but this was the first time he was able to find comfort right afterward. Every other time, he'd laid lonely, weepy, and insomniatic in the dark.

"Yeah, I'm here. Don't worry; it's okay. You can go back to sleep."

She ignored him as he expected she would, choosing _not _to roll over and go back to her own needs. Peter had predicted it, knowing Claire, but for a moment he realized how precious it was that she thought to sit up, join him, soothingly rub his sweat-slicked back. Twenty-four hours ago, he would have been lucky if she noticed him at all.

"What is it?" she asked softly, linking an arm with his and pressing herself against his bicep. Peter smiled and leaned into her touch, the feel of prickly curls tickling his collar and succulent breast grazing his elbow. Both of them were completely stark naked, carefreely electing to stay in bed after their reunion (in every sense of the word). Her touch alone was beyond comforting, and he'd never appreciated it more.

To her question. Should he have told her about the nightmare? He told Sylar, and Claire was equal to his brother. The only reason he hadn't told them at the same time was that he knew Sylar was the only one who would care. But now that Claire had returned in full…maybe she deserved to know.

"There's something I haven't told you yet," he said hoarsely, shifting through the covers to face her properly. "I didn't think you'd be that…understanding earlier. But I think you will be now."

Claire touched his cheek, and then brushed a stray lock of hair from his eyes. Just to be comforting; not enough to actually remove that beautiful hair from his face.

"What's wrong, Peter?"

He glanced up and slowly brought a hand to her creamy hip, rubbing a calloused hand over smooth skin just to make sure she was still with him, in the flesh. "It's this dream I've been having."

"Oh no…" Claire bowed her head, prompting Peter to move that hand on her hip farther back, nearly putting an arm around her waist fully. He knew her knowledge of his abilities. And though Claire didn't have a mental log of everything he was capable of, one of the first powers _she'd _learned about was his precognition via dreams. Dreams that predicted the future, however vague that might have seemed.

"It's bad," Peter finally blurted out. He could stand to hold it in any longer. "Claire, I don't understand it. I'm cutting people down with Hiro's sword and I'm _enjoying _it. And not just any people either, or random strangers. I'm killing Sylar, and Niki, and…" Peter hesitated before admitting in barely a mutter, "…you. You too."

"That can't really be you," Claire immediately shot back. "You're a good person. You've already been through enough angst on this trip. It should be all downhill from here, at least emotionally. We have each other back."

"I know," Peter mumbled, shaking his head helplessly. His face fell to rest against her crown, the only consolation coming from her scent. "Everything's so cold though. And I always feel so…bad," he finished lamely.

"Well, if it makes you feel better- you don't have a sword," Claire pointed out optimistically.

But Peter's worries and paranoia were quicker. "War has one," he glumly reminded her. "War, the Horseman, the one guy we have no _clue _who he is. We're already here in Russia and he still hasn't come out yet. He could be one of us for all we know. He could be _me._"

Claire scoffed and backed away from him, petite arms crossed over her breasts. Lunar beams shined down on her like a spotlight from God, illuminating her fiercely loving expression.

"If any one of _us _is that monster, it's Adam. Be real, Peter. You're not a killer. _He _is."

"Adam's an idiot and a selfish con man, but he's not _evil,_" Peter snapped. "Besides, he's been the one to actually pull the trigger on every one of our enemies. He stabbed Leelee, killed Edmund, was the first to fire at Orson. If he was working with them, why would he fight like abandoned hell to kill them?"

"I don't know." Claire was wilting in exasperated like a flower in the desert. "I'm just saying that I think being _that _is something you'd sort of be aware of, you know? I'm sure War knows who he is."

"That's why I'm so worried," he insisted. "Why else would I have gotten reincarnated, emotionless at that? And I've been having these weird dreams, and weird urges. I got really jealous of Adam when I shouldn't have. Hiro's sword is right at my fingertips. It's almost _too _easy."

Claire didn't reply. All she did was stare upon him helplessly, moving her shoulders upward in a weak gesture of vulnerability. Peter sighed and slumped back down onto the mattress, twisting loudly and broadly in the sheets until he was successfully curled up, back turned to her. Even mere seconds after this sign of rejection, Peter could feel Claire's eyes, upset and offended, scanning up and down his spine. It was no sixth sense; just the instinct of a lover who'd scorned his only source of comfort.

Claire eventually slid back under the covers too, daintily and carefully and barely making a sound. A patch of her skin brushed against his in the process, and she pulled away as if she'd been burned.

When all noise on the other side of the bed finally stopped, Peter dared to steal a glance at her from over his shoulder. Her back was hunched, hostile and hurt, and her ribbons of flaxen hair lay flat and uncared for against her neck.

Peter's empathetic heart couldn't take it anymore. Slowly, to not scare her away, he rolled over and inched towards his disgruntled lover. Her shoulders shifted as she sensed him behind her. Peter nervously raised an arm and slid it over her waist, pulling her to his front to curve against her.

"Now you come crawling back," she muttered after making him wait a couple seconds, though Peter didn't sense much bite in her tone. He let out a noncommittal mumble and nuzzled against her neck as a silent ask of forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he whispered sincerely. "I shouldn't expect you to have all the answers. I barely can figure any of this out myself."

"It's cool," she softly mumbled back. Peter sighed against her hair, feeling her relax against him, molding to the contours of his body.

"And for the record, since things have been so frantic lately, and I never got to tell you…" he suddenly blurted out. Now or never. "I can't say how glad I am to have you back, for real. When you fell sick in Osaka I…I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

"I'm okay." Claire entwined her fingers with his. "I'm right here."

Peter recalled a future where their linked fingers had wedding rings on them. "Yeah. Forever."

She suddenly brightened a little, wiggling back against him with newfound energy. "You know something kind of weird about us, though?"

Peter snorted. There were a _lot _of things weird about them, but he chose to humor her. "What this time?"

Claire craned her head to look at him from over her shoulder. "After all of the dying, and world-saving and other shit we've been through, we've _never_ been on a date." And when Peter opened his mouth to protest, Claire wryly cut in with, "Emerald City doesn't count."

Peter clicked his teeth, disappointed as his loophole was untied. But once the ridiculousness of her observation actually sunk in, he started to mildly chuckle.

It only made him hold her closer. "You're right. But I never really considered you my _girlfriend _either, so I don't think the rules really apply to us."

He was moderately worried that Claire would take such a statement out of context, but his love understood entirely. "Oh God, yeah. That whole term just seems so…ew."

"It's pathetic, right?"

"Yeah! I know. That too. I just can't really think of a titlefor…_this_." Claire shrugged and draped her hand over his arm, the one that was covering her waist. "Oh, and by the way- never say that word again. It sounds seriously weirdcoming out of your mouth."

Peter beamed into the pillow. "Still...you had a point. I think we should date. We might actually learn stuff about each other."

Claire chuckled. "I already know you drink milk right out the carton. What else is there to learn?"

"Eh, whatever. When this whole _world-saving _thing is over, I'm still taking you out."

Scoffs turned to giggles. "Like, to _dinner_? You're kidding. What is this, Peter, high school?"

"No, I'm serious." When Claire looked back at him, he indeed had his Dead Serious Face on. "Anywhere you want, anywhere in the world. All on me. Best damn first date of your life."

"Wait," the blonde said, a slight blush starting to graze her cheeks. "You really do mean this?"

"I never lie about dinner."

She jabbed him in the gut with her elbow, that last retort reminding her a tad too much of Angela Petrelli.

"Fine, Casanova," she quipped, though her white-toothed grin still glinted in the nighttime. "It's a date."

xxx

Van's house was full of strangers on the eve of New Year's Eve. His kitchen had been commandeered by Sylar and Niki's mutual love for cooking. Adam pillaged the Russian' boys bookshelves (and his brandy cabinet), feet propped up lazily in the study as he thumbed through a Nabokov novel. And Hiro was delighted to find a sword caretaking kit in the study, intended for use with the family's intricate collection hanging on the wall. The samurai had noticed with a small smile that Van owned a replica of the _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ katana.

Peter and Claire entered the main room together, fingers just barely linked, shameless and beaming. Adam glanced up from _Glory, _facial muscles not moving to accommodate his surprise. When Peter caught his gaze, Adam averted his eyes and cleared his throat, going back to the book.

Claire was oblivious to the mens' exchange, much more interested with the divine smells coming from the kitchen. Niki hadn't exactly found bacon and hash browns in the Russian's freezer, but she'd been able to pull together some sort of marvelous creation that only a mom could think up. Sylar's ability to see how things worked was almost like a mental measuring cup too- he knew what food went together chemically, and how much of each ingredient down to the perfect gram.

The blonde turned on her heel and pressed a quick, almost _natural _kiss to Peter's mouth before spinning off to the kitchen, leaving father and son to stand in awkward silence.

It was Adam who finally spoke up. "Back on hergood graces, eh? Well, if your relationship could survive the age difference, hero complex, and incest I'm sure it could survive anything, right?"

Peter chose to take the high road for once, not letting his disgruntled father bring down his good mood. But he entered the small hallway that led to the kitchen and saw Hiro, alone in an opposite room rubbing polish over his blade. Yet another sign of the impending danger and Peter gave up trying to be content.

He turned away from Niki, Sylar, and Claire in the kitchen, and approached his friend in the little side study room. The samurai rested peacefully in the corner, surrounded by stacks of books. His sword was in his lap, shining under a rag of polish.

"That seems to be your only love, Hiro," Peter commented, smiling a little. The Battojutsu master shrugged noncommittally, as one does.

"My only prized possession," Hiro admitted. Off Peter's offended air he added, "That isn't living, of course."

"Oh, good," the empath winked. "You had me worried for a second. Thought you didn't love me anymore."

Peter pulled up an antique chair beside his passive friend. It probably weighed around two-hundred pounds, but neither man took notice of the supernatural feat. Such events were so commonplace.

"I saw you with Claire," Hiro commented. "That is better now?"

"Thank God," Peter breathed, rubbing his forehead in relief. "One problem down, six-hundred and seventeen to go. I think I'm gonna need a bigger pocket planner."

"Things will get better," Hiro assured him. Peter was distantly reminded of saying the same thing to Claire back at Homecoming. _Life after high school. It gets a lot better. _

In retrospection he might have been wrong about that.

"There's one that's sort of been getting worse, actually," Peter admitted glumly. He curled his feet up under him, hugging one of his knees close to his chest. It was a position he took whenever he became insecure.

Hiro arched an eyebrow in interest. "Are you being general or is there something you haven't told me?"

To a normal person, that question would have struck as accusatory. But Peter knew Hiro wasn't offended at his silence. The sword master was simply curious and trying to get to the truth.

"I haven't told you yet. I told Sylar a while ago, and I told Claire last night. I don't think Niki needs to know, and I definitely don't trust Adam with it."

Hiro was leaning forward, setting his sword aside, attention entirely zoned in on Peter. "When you went radioactive in your sleep," he began, totally clued in to what Peter referred to, "how did you dream?"

"Terribly," Peter muttered softly. "Every night except one, now. It's always here, in Russia. I've usually got your sword in my hand and I'm killing everyone we know. And I'm _loving _it, Hiro. I don't know what they mean, and I hope they won't even come true. But they just keep getting darker and weirder and now that we're actually in St. Petersburg, I think that they probably aren't that far off anymore."

"You're assuming you're War, aren't you?" Hiro stared Peter down, and Peter eventually nodded. Hiro smiled reassuringly. "I'm sure you're not anything of the sort."

"That's what everyone keeps _saying_," Peter snapped, a little frustrated. "But we can't just _assume _that it's not even a possibility anymore. I got reincarnated for a reason! Maybe…God…maybe it was for this."

"Or maybe it was to_ stop_ this," Hiro suggested. "Never try to dissect the plans of destiny, Peter. I am a lord of time, as are you. But neither one of us can see the future in entire certainty."

Damn was that right. Peter's visit to the future had been haunting his every decision lately. That perfect New York penthouse with his beautiful wife Claire…that was his _goal, _and he was so afraid of messing it up by making the wrong choice somewhere in the here and now.

He briefly thought Hiro had read his mind, once again in this conversation, for the samurai next said, "There are no bad choices in life. Only choices that lead us on a new and less traveled path."

"Thanks, fortune cookie Joe." Peter muttered. "Got any one-liners about how the hell I'm supposed to save the world from myself?"

"You're not War," Hiro repeated, more stricken this time. "But that does bring up the issue that War fights with a sword…"

"I'm always carrying a sword in my dreams, Hiro," Peter brusquely brought up. "Do I need to spell it out for you?"

"You're missing my point." Hiro rose from his chair and stepped over to the wall, where Van's own sword collection hung. "If you're going to be fighting a swordsman, you really should learn how to play by his rules."

"What?" Peter snorted. "Are you saying I should learn how to swordfight?"

Hiro's encouraging nod and smile were enough to wipe the disdain right off Peter's face. He gaped.

"Whoa. No way. Armageddon is like, tomorrow! And what if me learning how to use the weapon is some sort of way to prepare me _as _who we're supposed to be fighting?!"

It took a minute for Hiro to mentally unscramble Peter's garbled English. But he didn't need to catch every word to get the same theme which _all _of Peter's frantic rants had contained.

Hiro nearly lost control of his temper, a rare sight. "You are not War!" he cried, turning again to the wall. The samurai roughly ripped a longsword down from the display, luckily still sheathed, and haphazardly tossed it to Peter. The former nurse was able to catch it, with the super fast reflexes that he'd inherited circa three years before.

For once, Peter chose to give his friend the benefit of the doubt. He sighed, looking shamefully at his red-faced comrade. "Alright, I get it. I'm not evil." Hiro smiled triumphantly, but Peter wasn't done yet. "Still. How do you expect me to learn this?"

"Don't worry. You have a good memory, don't you? And I wouldn't offer my help if I didn't have confidence in you, Peter. You're capable of anything if you're determined enough to succeed in it."

Peter's gaze fell to the leather-encased blade in his hands. He carefully pulled on the sword's hand-crafted hilt, sliding the sliver of metal out from the protective sheath. No more considerations or doubts. He couldn't try to deduce the consequences of every single fork in the road paved before him. Peter needed to simply grit his teeth and _do _something on impulse, especially something like this, which could prove to be beneficial to their saving-the-world efforts.

He finally peered back at Hiro, now grinning a little mischievously. "Okay, buddy. I'll try it your way."

They both wore smiles as they headed out the study the back way, but such content expressions only proved their naivety. For perched right inside an alcove in the hallway, ears carefully picking up every word of their conversation, was Adam Monroe.

xxx

Peter's nose was frozen. His feet were frozen. Everything was frozen. Having teleported straight inside Van's mansion earlier, he'd never actually moseyed outside into the Russian climate. But now what he stood shin-deep in a snow drift, a fogged sword gripped rigidly in his right hand…

Good _God. _He had thought winters in New York were bad. No, that was just cold. This was _damn _cold.

"Can't we do this _inside?_" he barked at Hiro, letting out a frosty breath. "It's below zero out here!"

"Negative nine digress, to be exact," Hiro piped brightly. The samurai treaded through ice and wind as if didn't even touch him. Like a warm bubble of invisibility surrounded his short frame.

Peter's face was frozen in place, but his voice did manage to convey some inflection. "Negative nine? Are you _insane?!" _

The sword master shrugged. "Not that I know of. Come, Peter. You have to get used to the temperature. You don't think that final battle we're preparing for is going to be _indoors_, do you?"

Peter recalled his dreams with a lurch in his stomach. His dreams which had always taken place in a blizzardy courtyard. He gritted his teeth, which evoked a painful stinging to shoot through each root in this sort of weather.

"No," he grumbled. "When I'd made those paintings, I never even _thought _this would be that big of a problem."

"It's probably why War has chosen St, Petersburg," Hiro reminded him wisely. "Our enemies are counting on the fact that we are human. This sort of weather is hardly bearable for us."

"Tell me about it," Peter spat, still not letting this one go without a fight. This wasn't something that he could just accept with a nod and a 'thank-you'. The frostbite on his bare fingers, just from the air alone,wouldn't _let him_ just accept it.

"Here, we'll begin," Hiro briskly suggested. "Once you get your muscles moving, you will probably warm up more."

"Okay, starting now." Peter would do cartwheels if it meant just a _few _degrees of mercy. "Hurry up. What's the first move?"

"I'll show you starting position." Hiro offered, immediately switching into a formal-looking posture. His heels were together, the katana gripped firmly in his left hand. The blade pointed up and sat against the top of his shoulder. It wasn't the most conventional pose imaginable, but Peter had in fact seen his wiry friend use it before.

Peter stowed away his fear of the cold and copied his tutor, swinging his own sword upwards to his shoulder.

"Simple enough," Hiro said. "But here's something quite more complicated. And then name of it is sort of ironic, actually."

"And what would that be?"

"Roughly translated from Japanese it means 'The Immortal Points the Way." Hiro rarely smiled, but there was a hint of a smirk playing on his pursed lips. The joke was not lost on Peter, but he was too cold and too bitter to let out more than a scoff.

Nakamura took a step forward. "Anyway, you need to pay attention very closely. This is rather long and complicated move."

"No problem," Peter reminded him. "Super memory, remember?" Ha. He'd made a pun. God, this cold was making him delirious. If he stayed out there any longer, he'd probably start randomly humming "Like a Virgin," or begin idiotically giggling at the freezing rain brewing on the horizon.

Hiro gave him the benefit of the doubt and shrugged, entering the next move. It looked like sort of a half-spin. Hiro dug his right heel into the snow and swung his body eastward, letting the sword's momentum follow him. After a couple more semi-circles and swings, he ended up with the sword pointing towards the ground and his free hand striking out with his middle two fingers.

Peter blinked. "You weren't kidding. That was...long."

"I told you," Hiro answered frankly. "We're skipping a lot of the basics here. You need to jump right into the most useful moves. Now you try the one I just did."

The empath nodded, serious about this endeavor for once. He dug up the mental images of everything Hiro had just performed. Spin on the right foot, let the sword swing…a three pointed arc with the sword as he turned in the other direction…then thrusting the sword towards the ground and throwing out his free hand with two fingers lethally pointed…

"Not bad," Hiro admitted, nodding contentedly. "You're just clumsy. You need more grace, more flexibility. I know you're not used to fighting with your actual _body _and that's why."

"So what am I supposed to do? I'd have to practice this move a thousand times to get as good as you, and I don't have that kind of time. I need to learn it all right now."

The negative temperature had sunk through his socks now, encasing his feet in bricks of chill. Peter bit back a shiver.

Hiro frowned thoughtfully. "Try to imagine yourself as a great sea. Big, and broad, but still fluid. You can have wrath with grace, power from nature, and stillness in secret. You can go from perfectly passive to a raging tsunami with just a gust of wind. You can slip up the shore and slide back out just as quickly, before they even know you've arrived."

Peter screwed up his mouth, never good at analogies. Especially when they involved him imagining himself as a huge mass like the Mediterranean.

He swallowed, burning his throat, and raised his sword once again. He went through the motions of 'the immortal points the way' slowly this time, letting his muscles tense and relax with every step and swing.

"Don't think about doing it," Hiro instructed in the middle of his practice. "Find a center, a rhythm. Here, I'll teach you a few more moves. Then you can do them all in sequence. It's easier that way."

Peter wasn't sure how learning _more _moves would make this _easier, _but he trusted his friend nonetheless.

The next half hour was a flurry of information as over a half dozen new moves were crammed into Peter's bottomless memory. 'The Falling Flower.' 'The Wind Rolls The Lotus Leaf.' 'Wave Tassels In The Wind.' Some of the hardest Battojutsu moves in Hiro's lexicon and Peter had never even picked up a sword in his life. And on top of that, Nakamura's expectations of his friend were probably even more unreasonable. But Peter had been through worse, and both of them knew it. Plus, he had the power of memory on his side, which was greatly assisting in this learning process.

And Hiro had been right about something else- that learning all these moves at once would help them go more smoothly as a whole sequence. Peter eventually felt the sword as if it was a third arm, twirling around him in a violent dance. Then, in mid-position, he heard a rough _clank _of metal against Van's blade in his fists.

Peter's eyes widened when he spotted Hiro two feet before him, his own katana raised and pressed against Peter's sword.

"You're ready to practice with me now," Hiro declared, stepping back and slinking in the 'starting position.'

Peter chuckled. "You're only saying that 'cause you know if you cut off my arm, it'll grow back."

Hiro's shining teeth were lost in the contrast of the snow. "Perhaps that did affect my decision. Healing aside, you've advanced rather proficiently. You're no samurai by any means, but you can at least hold your own. Fight me, and we'll see how you truly hold up against an opponent."

"Alright, _Carp._" Peter grinned as Hiro's expression went sour. Petrelli raised his sword and rapidly advanced towards his mentor and best friend. "You're on."

xxx

Unbeknownst to Hiro and Peter, they were being watched.

Adam Monroe was in the mansion's library, a first story room which looked out onto the frost-laced back courtyard. The empath and the clock puncher were swiftly clashing swords, and Adam was pleasantly surprised to see that Hiro Nakamura wasn't really holding back. Quite a lot of Peter's blood was splattered onto the ivory ground, from scratches on his face to rips into his thighs.

The immortal couldn't help but notice the _irony _in this. From Peter's dream of self-inserted battle, and now he was learning how to use a sword? How sinful this appeared. What opportunities it presented.

A sound like bone rapping on wood occurred behind him. Sylar was standing in the doorframe with a blue tray of food in his grip. Adam vaguely wondered how long his son had been standing there, but Sylar himself had nothing to hide. He was too busy soaking in his father's faux lost aura.

Adam sat by the sill, looking at the foggy window, his hands resting passively in his lap. It was an overcast day and the grey gloom illuminated the paleness in his ageless face. Sylar studied his father for a moment, intuitive aptitude tapping into Monroe's mind stream. His face was sunken and sad, and the atmosphere of loneliness surrounding him nearly made Sylar want to actually _embrace _his relative.

"Adam?" he said timidly, setting the tray on a writing desk. He superfluously added, "I've got some food."

"Thank you, Sylar." The usually clipped British tones were flat and almost inaudible. "But you know I don't need to eat."

"Come on." Sylar grabbed a piece of toast and approached Adam, holding it out firmly. "I haven't seen you have a meal in two days. I know you can survive without it, but…aren't you hungry at all?"

"I'm fine. But thank you for being concerned." Adam's smile was weak but mildly sincere. Sylar's face sunk and he set the toast by the sill, and then followed Adam's sightline to the frosted yard.

"What's out there?" Sylar asked, craning his neck. Adam pointed lightly towards the two dark fingers pirouetting in the snow.

"Peter." Adam's lips pursed in staged marvel. "Look at him, learning the weapon of War. Fast learner isn't he? I suppose Hiro is a good instructor."

Sylar shot his father an astonished gaze. He nearly chuckled, bowing his face back towards his breakfast in nonchalance. "War? What does Peter have to do with _War?_"

"Oh, you may be surprised, my friend," Monroe tutted, briskly tapping on his lips with an index finger. Sylar's attention was just beginning to get piqued. "First of all, he's wielding a sword and learning pretty damn well how to use it. The sword, of course being the main symbol of our red Horseman friend."

"Hiro's had that sword forever, and it was yours before that," Sylar reminded his father sternly. "That's no guarantee of anything."

"Alright, take that as you will," Adam breezily said. "But I'm sure you cannot deny that the _dreams _Peter has been having are anything but innocent. Quite disturbing, actually. I heard him overtelling one of them to his bonnie lass last night, between the walls."

"Dreams?" Sylar asked naively, feigning lack of knowledge. And he refused to admit that such a topic did in fact disturb his suspicion.

"Don't play dumb, son." Adam's gaze cut condescendingly like a knife in the stomach. "You don't think he went nuclear in his sleep for no reason, do you? And you also don't expect me to believe that your dear brother _never _told you of his little secret?"

Sylar was a crafty man, but he was not a liar. The fall of his eyes and the hue of his cheeks gave him away like a kid with their hand in the cookie jar.

"How about something you're more familiar with, eh?" Adam offered, waving his previous point away. Sylar wasn't sure whether it was to save him from mortification or to damn him into doubt. "Every mission. I've carefully observed all his actions, and he seems to be _protecting _to Horsemen."

"I know my brother better than anything else." Sylar was beginning to get angry at Adam's unwarranted suspicion, violently raising his voice. "And he is not the monster you're making him out to be."

"_Au contraire, _my naïve sir. Was it not Peter who led me right to where Leelee was going to attack? He couldn't have just _guessed _something like that. In the desert, he was driving when that racer crashed, astronomically reducing your odds of catching the redhead. And isn't it just _funny _how, even though Peter is the most powerful one of us all, he always refuses to actually attack our enemies?"

Sylar backed away from his father, quaking with confusion and rage. "I don't believe that," he stammered, shaking his head. "There's no way that…that makes no logical sense. He isn't."

The whole mood had changed so abruptly. One second, Adam was sorrowful and lonely, and the next, he was so full of bitterness and almost a crazed paranoia. Sylar originally suspected that this had to do with Claire, but these accusations hit a lot more below the belt. Especially because Adam had a lot of laudable _proof_ for something that Sylar never wanted to believe.

What if the Englishman had facts, though? Peter's disturbing precognitive dreams, his lack of aggression towards their enemies…and now he was suddenly learning to use a sword? Peter and Sylar had been friends with Hiro for years, but never had Peter yearned to pick up a katana. He could have learned _ages _ago from their samurai friend- why now?

"Deny it all you want, Sylar," Adam growled, sinking back towards the sill and staring mournfully out the window once again. "But I won't. As soon as he comes back in, I'm pulling the answers out of him."

Sylar nearly ran out of the library, clumsily, loudly, and inappropriately so. Niki and Claire were waiting for him with concerned frowns when he stumbled back into the kitchen. The older woman walked up to him, taking his shoulders in her hands and guiding his eyes to hers.

"Hey, hey…" Niki mumbled. "What's wrong?"

Sylar tried to control his panting. He sniffed, inventive mind immediately coming up with an excuse. He hated lying, and he was bad at it, but this was something he could leave _vague _and not feel guilty about it. Everything depended on a certain point of view, anyway.

"I'm…I just got spooked. Sorry."

Claire let out a kind little laugh. "What? You think this place might be haunted?"

Sylar forced a smile, appreciating the assumption. "Yeah. Haunted. I believe it. Especially the library."

Niki nodded and kissed him tenderly on the cheek, sauntering off back to the dining table. Sylar's tongue flicked over his lips in anxiety, but otherwise his soberness was convincing. Convincing to his friends, and even to himself.

Adam had to be full of bullshit. Peter was his brother, his best-friend, and the one man that knew him better than anyone else. He was born to be a saint, not a conqueror. And there was no misjudging that.

But a part of him, that little curious bug of doubt that every human has in their conscience…that part of him believed his cunning father suspicions and was left to swell with doubt.

xxx

**To be continued…**


	21. War Games

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"**War Games"**

It was afternoon by the time Peter finished his lesson with Hiro, the cold having chapped his cheeks raw. After Hiro's initial teachings, they'd moved on to actual _combat._ Though painful at first, such an exercise proved to be really rewarding in the end. Towards the final few minutes of the sword lesson, Hiro reluctantly allowed superpowers to come into play.

"I don't think that was really fair," Hiro commented as they shuffled back into Van's house. "Next time, remind me not to let you use your advantages."

"Lighten up, Jackie Chan," Peter protested, teasing. "Flying with a sword is my specialty."

"It's not meant to be fun, Peter." Hiro had stopped walking, his face much sterner. Peter's jovial expression dropped like an avalanche. "I'm pleased that you enjoy it, but don't forget your priorities."

"Don't worry," Peter assured him, now entirely sober. "I've got it."

Hiro bowed his head and Peter respectfully bowed back, before switching to American mode and clapping the samurai on his shoulder.

"Anyway_, you_ can stop time. So you've got no right to talk about fairness."

Hiro chuckled as they headed into the living room, both prepared to get out of their boots and parkas. But neither one expected was all four of their comrades waiting, terrified stares lacing each face.

Peter was the first one to catch his friends' askew expressions. He gaped a bit, his gaze scanning from timid Niki, to stiff Sylar, to an almost weepy-looking Claire. Adam seemed firm and triumphant.

"Hey, guys…" he slowly began. "What's going on?"

Hiro's hand gripped him on the shoulder, and the ninja moved closer to his side. Peter's empathy throbbed like a nervous heartbeat, which seemed like a pretty apt analogy, considering the circumstances.

Niki spoke quietly. "What were you doing out there?"

Peter had a hard time finding his voice even with his innocence. He hadn't been doing anything wrong. The intentions were totally noble. Hiro taught him to fight their enemy, not _become _it.

But when he opened his mouth to say so, all that came out where choked noises and stammered fragments of excuses.

Sylar leaned and whispered something in Niki's ear, which Peter was too frazzled to hear. However, whatever secret words escaped from Sylar's lips made the single mother's eyes go wide. She suddenly grabbed onto the amnesiac's hands and pulled herself closer to him, staring upon Peter in shock and fear.

"What's wrong?" Peter demanded weakly. "I didn't…I haven't done anything."

Adam stepped forward, arms crossed over his broad chest. One blonde eyebrow was cruelly arched.

"I'm afraid your girlfriend has spilled the beans on you and your dream, Peter. Or shall I say, _War_?"

Peter's jaw dropped in disbelief. He locked eyes with Claire, who shook her head resolutely at the slander. She begged him without words to believe her, not Adam. That she could never do such a thing.

"What are you talking about?!" Claire shrieked, on her feet. Sylar had to hold her back from absolutely mauling Adam. "I haven't said _anything_! I don't even know why you called us all in here!"

"Oh, spare us the lovers' drama," the British man yawned. "We all know about dear Peter's nightmare anyway_,_ don't we? The disturbing prophecy where he's _slaughtering _all of us? Heroic, isn't it? Especially seeing as his dreams are known to predict the future. That he told me from his own tongue."

"How do you…" Peter licked his lips, looking once again to his frantic lover. No, she _couldn't _have. He refused to believe it. "How do you know about that?"

"Ah, so you admit it?" When Adam tilted his head expectantly, Peter's hands balled into fists.

"Don't tell him anything, Peter!" Claire screamed, still writhing in Sylar's stronghold. At that, Peter was pretty convinced that _she_ hadn't told Adam about the dream. But the only other people who knew were Hiro and Sylar, and Hiro was with him the whole time…

Peter nearly crumpled in heartache. Petey lurked beside him, hand on Peter's left shoulder. The shadow kept his master in check, standing resolute and glaring upon their mutual father.

The thought of Claire betraying him was harsh, yes. But the idea that _Sylar _ratted him out…that was… Peter's breath became shallow. The way his brother was so quiet and scared-looking, and how he was holding Claire back, how he had whispered something appalling to Niki…

"Sylar," Peter called out feebly, shaking his head at his Gemini, the most loyal friend he'd ever had. What would posses his brother to do this? Certainly Sylar wouldn't hate him in secret! "You didn't…tell me you didn't do it."

Sylar's lips parted and his eyes crinkled, sort of bewildered. Peter's heart found a way to beat again in that single expression of perplexity. Peter knew when Sylar genuinely showed an emotion, and when he was faking, and right then was a perfect example of _true _confusion.

Thus, if Sylar had no idea what he was talking about, if that puppyish face of naïve virtue was true, then Peter could rest mostly assured. No, Adam must have found out another way. Eavesdropped maybe, and then played to his brother's insecurities. If Adam had been manipulating their entire _group _all along, Peter couldn't blame Sylar for falling again. Adam's silver tongue was nearly irresistible.

"Take your suspicions somewhere else, Kensei," the samurai gruffly stated. "Peter is a good leader, an even better man. He is most definitely innocent."

"_Innocent? _So innocent that he's all of a sudden had the urge to pick up fencing?" Adam quipped. "Funny. A sword. That's the symbol of War, isn't it?"

Peter shook with rage, far worse than when Adam ruthlessly shot Van through the skull. His teeth were gritted as he spat out, "You conniving son of a bitch…"

Adam brushed the insult off without even batting an eye. "And what's with all the secrets? You're supposed to be our ally, Peter. You know you can trust us. If you've been having these dreams for some time, you should have _warned _us. Maybe then we could actually believe there was some good in you."

That was the final straw. Even Hiro's body, standing as a human barrier, couldn't prevent Peter from positively lunging at his father. The almost animalisticattack sent both of them tumbling to the ground.

"Peter!" Claire cried, taking a couple paces over to the fighting men. Peter was on top, landing punch after punch on his father's face, all the bruises rapidly rehealing. Claire and Hiro managed to peel the furious mimic off of his devious relative, while Niki and Sylar stood huddled and neutral off to the side. Adam was on the ground still, wiping blood off the corner of his mouth. Peter was doing the same with his nose, which Adam roughly cracked with a harsh clout to the face.

Adam leapt up with quick maneuverability. And before anyone saw it coming, he had pulled a gun from the back seam of his slacks, aiming it at Peter's chest.

Sylar took a breath and outstretched his fingers, prepared to mentally push the revolver out of this father's hand. But Peter raised a palm as well, canceling out his brother's power. There was something curiously tempting about that gun barrel. Adam intended to use it to prove a point, but maybe Peter could make the same stunt work to his advantage.

"This gun is loaded with holy water bullets, Peter," Adam superfluously explained. "My idea. If I shoot you, and you're who we think you are…you will die instantly."

The click of another gun sounded behind them. Claire had an equally as lethal weapon perched in her own hands, pointed directly at Adam Monroe.

"Ditto," she growled, knuckle resting confidently over the trigger.

Everyone in the room could see Adam's face whiten. The status quo had changed. Especially when Peter abruptly twitched his fingers, ripping the gun out of his lover's hands and catching it in mid-air with his own. Claire gasped, fingers holding onto nothing but air now, eyes widening towards her impulsive Peter.

He pointed the gun at Adam, two men locked in a circular duel. Anyone there who really _knew _Peter recognized how desperate a situation this was, how much rage truly boiled under his empathetic skin. Peter hated firearms, and now that he had one so effortlessly pointed at the heart of his own father…

Claire's countenance had gone from confident to horrified within seconds. She hated the lines of odium which lined Peter's soft face. He wasn't meant tolook that angry, and his ruthlessness in that moment nearly made her believe Adam's theory. What if, what if, Peter was the enemy they needed to be fighting?

But thank the heavens- when Peter caught a glimpse of Claire in his side vision, his features blurred with a layer of tenderness. His heart tied in a knot when he saw her so shocked, stricken. She was_ afraid_, of him! Such a loathsome emotion was far worse than her not wanting to do with him at all.

A decision was made with a nanosecond of nerve transfer. He lowered his gun and tossed it across the room where it landed on the foyer of the unlit fireplace. Chaos stilled in expectation, all eyes back on Adam, waiting for his countermove. Monroe glanced to each and every one of his surly comrades before throwing his own weapon down too. As soon as the pistols were discarded, every bystander let out a heavy sigh of relief, while Adam and Peter remained stone-faced.

A pregnant silence lingered in the air, suffocating Peter from the inside out. He managed to shoot an apologetic gaze towards Claire before storming up the grand staircase, headed to his makeshift bedroom.

Claire and Sylar decided to run after him in tandem, calling his name along the way. Yet Peter made no move to stop or even acknowledge their presence. Not even when they were a few meters behind him and he slipped into his bedroom. Claire barely wrangled her fingers from the entrance frame before he viciously closed the door in their faces with a noisy _blam. _

_Childish_, Claire sort of thought, before considering it on such a bigger level. It really wasn't, no. Not juvenile. What Peter had just been accused of was unbelievably cruel. If she had been in his shoes, she wouldn't know who to trust either. In fact, she would have simply wanted to be alone.

"It's okay," Claire sighed after remembering that Sylar still loomed beside her. She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door. "He just needs some time. He'll come out soon."

"Right," Sylar nodded. He was breathing heavily, as was she. Stress had wrung the hell out of them both in that showdown. God. In all the days their group had traveled together, with all the topsy turvy romances, with all the atrophy and empty lust, nothing_ that_ full of viciousness had occurred.

As sort of a consolation trophy, Petey phased through the door, standing in front of Sylar and Claire with its head hung in depression. Claire approached the shadow sympathetically, taking one hand in hers and curving into the dark contours of its body. Sylar awkwardly set his large palm on Petey's shoulder, brotherly and all, even though he'd never really interacted with his twin's soul like Claire had.

Still, even with his lack of shadow trivia, he was aware of the rarity of the next event. Because, for the first time ever, Petey actually made a _sound_. Up till then, Claire hadn't even realized he was capable of it.

The shadow raised its face towards the vaulted ceiling and let out a horrible cry, a great and terrible moan like nothing either Sylar or Claire had heard before. A husky wail of banshee with smoker's lung. Claire painfully imagined a stern arithmetic teacher running her red nails down the inside of Petey's throat.

And it was that howl, instead of any other slander or gunpowder or rugged accusation in the past ten minutes…_that _was what made tears finally spill from Claire's mournful grey eyes.

xxx

Peter dreams of snow once more, and of an icy marble floor.

He's runningthrough the front atrium of St. Petersburg's Palace. A gust of cold breeze hits him when the entrance doors open inwardly, untouched and unstimulated. He imagines gladiator horns as his hair is blown back as the cold sword in his right hand fogs up with the change in degrees.

He stops, head craned, watching the doors open by their own accord. Listens to the roar of battle waiting for him. His blood shoots up a couple degrees with excitement. Peter vibrates with happy tension, his teeth shining as an impossibly large grin stretches across his face.

He's destroyed two fools with two different weapons over the past week. He's injured the enigmatic one, the one who is _next._ And as for the woman- she's hot, but she's flaky. He can take care of her with one quick _thrust, _like he always does. Though this thrust would be a bit different than the one he's used to giving her…and far less pleasurable on her part.

"Wait up!" screetches a voice from behind. Speak of the devil! Once again, she's totally broken his mood.

He turns his head, irritated, and sees Elle Bishop with an orange-tuffed fox trailing after her.

The part of Peter that is linked to reality cocks a quizzical eyebrow. Wait…Elle? Adam's Elle? What in God's name is _she _doing out here? Especially dressed in nothing but a red short-sleeved jumpsuit. Does she have no gauge of the outdoor temperature?

The cold doesn't seem to bother her as she steps up to flank Peter, the bloodbath opened in front of them like a movie screen. She links her arm excitably with his, presses an icy kiss to his cheek, and nudges him a little with her hip. Peter can feel something brush near his leg, and sees a sly length of amber fur sitting obediently at _his _feet. Her fox- the perky animal from his previous nightmare.

He wonders why and what and who.

"You were gonna do this without me?" she pouts, eyes cutting sharper than the sword in Peter's hand. He frowns. Yeah, he's going to do this alone, because he really doesn't need her to do a man's job…

"Ooh," Elle realizes, removing herself from his touch and gaping. She's on to him. "You naughty boy."

Peter's halfway through an eyeroll when he feels the sword being wrangled from his fingers. Elle has taken it, holding it up experimentally towards the natural grey light.

"Hey!" Peter barks along with the dog, taking a step closer, eyes locked on the blade. But now that the misty outer layer has faded, and now that he actually stares _into _the metal rather than _onto _it.

_Oh…my…God…_

The man looking back in his reflection, the man looking back in the sword…he is not Peter Petrelli. He has straw-colored hair, alabaster skin, and thin, quirky lips that are perfectly matched with Elle's for kissing.

Then, the sword swiftly disappears from the air. And before Peter has a chance to wonder where the man in the mirror went, he suddenly has the blade sticking between his ribs.

Elle grins toothily, her hand warmed by the waterfall of blood pouring from his chest. Peter chokes and grabs her as he's hopelessly falling to his knees. Damn gravity. Damn sword. And damn Elle! Damn the minx who has winded him up like a jack-in-the-box, ready to spring at her demand.

She slips out of his weak grasp as though coated with oil, but one of her manicured hands still curves delicately around the leather hilt of the sword as she takes a step back. Tying them together, just enough.

With his last breath Peter, the most Peter-ish part inside of this injured, bi-polar body, looks down at the clear steel once again. He's again checking out a reflection that is not his own. Yet this astonished face painted in metal is not foreign either.

Blood runs down to the ridge of the sword, streaking the face of Adam Monroe like a waterfall of molasses over a pane of glass. And then everything fades to black with the pained bawl of an orange fox.

xxx

Peter awoke to screams, and for once, they weren't his own.

He blearily glanced at the digital clock, which read about midnight. Most of their crew was usually up pretty late, so he wouldn't have been surprised if someone (most likely Sylar) was around, watching something weird on TV…something perhaps violent…

But as his mind crept further into consciousness, he became aware of two things. One, that the screams coming from outside his door were certainly real. And, that in his dream, he had become Adam Monroe.

No. Not 'become.' He'd been Adam all along. Every dream that took place on the Russian rink was from _Adam's _perspective, not Peter's! That's why Orson talked to him like they knew each other.

That's why Peter had talked to _himself. _That's why Claire so brutally said that he wasn't who she thought…

…and that's why he carried a sword and slaughtered the lot of them.

And then everything occurred to Peter at once, like a match had been ignited in his head. Adam was War. The vicious and ruthless creature who'd been trying to turn them all against each other, who'd been trying to kill off all the other Horsemen so he himself could conquer all. Of course, he'd need Peter and the others to lead him from place to place via precognition and Hiro's teleportation powers. It was easier just to tag along with a bunch of do-gooders than to attempt killing Edmund, Orson, and Leelee by himself.

Peter could recall it now. Who had been the one to stab Leelee? Adam. Who had been the one to fire at Edmund? Adam. And who had been the only one of them to react when Orson appeared, the only one who actually pulled the trigger?

The empath immediately ripped the covers off his legs and stumbled from the bed, not even noticing that he wore nothing but boxers. The surrealness of this night made him feel like he had hopped from one dream to another, but the racing of his heart convinced him that _this time _it was very, very real.

Peter crashed through his bedroom door and rushed down the stairs, trying to ignore the bloody footprints that ran parallel to his strides. He tried to direct himself towards the screams but terror surrounded him in all directions. Somewhere to the left, Niki was yelling Sylar's name- whether in begging for mercy or as a plea for help, Peter couldn't decipher. To the right, someone was yelling _his _name. And on the ground, dying and pale, Hiro Nakamura wailed for his sister.

"Kimi…"

Peter gasped, skidding towards his friend and collapsing at Hiro's side. "Hiro! Oh God…no, Hiro…"

Multiple gunshot wounds dressed the samurai's chest, but Hiro was visibly trying to keep his breathing even, and the pain off his face. And despite his deliriousness concerning his sibling, his eyes shined with recognition when he caught sight of Peter's concerned face hovering above him.

"P…Peter…" Nakamura sputtered. Peter shook his head in denial, eyes stinging, hand roaming over Hiro's injured chest. He had to touch the wounds just to make sure they were real. And indeed, the liquid that pooled underneath his fingernails was warm and touchable and made him want to vomit.

"Hiro," the empath moaned, pulling the ninja into his arms. "Hang in there, okay?"

"Tell Kimiko…I…love…"

"No, no, no, no! Don't do this! You're gonna be fine!"

But Peter Petrelli, demi-god of the new world, still was not strong enough to stop death. Hiro slumped in his arms as the life left his eyes, four-hundred year old katana still clutched in his unyielding grip.

Peter would have stayed, but a gunshot whizzed over his head from an unknown assailant, just grazing his black hair. He reluctantly abandoned his friend's side with a rolling lunge, ducking behind a hallway corner. Peter held his breath, and taking one last look at the body of his best friend, he began sprinting in a straight shot down the opposite corridor.

Now he wished he was back in nightmareland. Because despite the horror of those dreams, and the dread they always bestowed upon his chest, he could always wake up the next morning and find his friends waiting with open arms. But this, this was no fantasy. He and his comrades were actually in danger, dying even. And there was no waking up and seeing that it was all better.

Such a thought reminded him of his dream though, the dream where he'd turned into Adam. Was the immortal responsible for this, or was it coincidence? Was it Orson? Random robbers attacking a decadent mansion without mercy? So many questions, but all he knew how to do at this point was how to run away.

"Peter! Oh!"

Something blonde slammed into him not far down the hall, and he soon recognized it as Claire. Yes, Claire, hair matted, face streaked with tears, and clothes dotted with splatters of blood. His Claire, a tough but innocent girl trapped in the midst of chaos. She must have been the one calling his name earlier, the distant and mysterious voice in distress. Despite the frantic nature of their situation, he couldn't help but be a little humbled.

He forced her to look at him, cupped her face in his dirty palms, damming her weeping. Her hands covered his, and Peter frantically looked around for the source of her terror.

"Claire! Shh, I'm here. I'm here. What's going on?" Hiro hadn't been lucid, but maybe he could get some answers from Claire.

She opened her mouth and weakly moaned, "Adam-."

And then a gunshot straight to the back of her skull severed the words.

She slumped, lifeless and empty-eyed in Peter's rigid arms. He gaped in horror and screamed her name, shaking her body, his chills becoming hers. No, not again…she could not die in his arms again, not after all they'd been through, and after all they'd gotten back…

And when Peter looked over Claire's shoulder, his own eyes clouded with tears. The bastard that had been her last word, the bastard who he called a father, stood at the end of the hall with a smoking gun.

"Sorry, Peter," Adam piped, lowering the pistol to make his own offspring his next victim. "It's nothing personal. Just…what does your brother call it? An evolutionary imperative?"

The second gunshot went off in slow motion, smoke exploding around the bullet like a softly blooming flower. Peter's eyes were tightly shut as he nervously thought of Hiro- his good friend, not the corpse in the entrance hall.

By the grace of God, his plan succeeded. The next time Peter opened his eyes, he was in the upstairs bathroom, Claire still cradled in his arms. He moistened his lips and locked the door with a twist of telekinesis, now given a moment of solace to take in everything he'd just seen.

Part of him knew he should be weeping. His best friend was dead. The love of his life lay departed in his arms, and could hopefully be revived. The status of his dear brother and Niki were unknown, but judging from all he'd seen and heard in the last day, Peter wasn't even sure he could _trust _Sylar anymore.

And Peter hadn't been able to warn them until too late. Why hadn't he been able to see it before? That in his dreams, it was not _him _killing all his friends on the ice- it was _Adam. _Their temporary leader and the man they trusted with their lives and the fate of the world.

Peter wanted to curse them all, and himself, for such naivety. But really, how could they have known? The circumstances that they met Adam under weren't malicious. He'd saved Micah's life, as was his job. He happened to be related to them, another positive. How could anyone have suspected that Adam Monroe, the miracle doctor of Frisco and the alienated father of Peter and Sylar, could be the missing Horseman in their puzzle of Armageddon?

The empath sniffed and lifted Claire up, going to sit on the lip of the bath. He set her body down inside the tub so the blood would have somewhere to collect. Peter leaned closer and turned her head gently, inspecting the bullet wound in the back of her head. It was deep, but if he could find a pair of tweezers in the medicine cabinet, he could pull it out and bring her back. That was the bitchy thing about head injuries, even with projectiles- they totally paused the healing system. Peter or Claire could get shot in the chest and the slug would automatically be ejected from the body. But getting shot in the head required an external source to remove the offending bullet.

Peter set Claire's head back into a normal position and covered her thousand-yard stare with a wave of his hand. He nostalgically brushed back a lock of her hair before rising from the edge of the tub, headed towards the cabinet. Van said his mother lived here to, so there was bound to be-

Four swift bullets ripped through the wooden door, cascading Peter with splinters of wood and metal shrapnel. He cried out and ducked, flattening himself on the ground to avoid the continuing stream of firing. Daring a glimpse over his shoulder, he spotted over a dozen smoking holes buried into the sheetrock.

Needless to say, Adam had found them again.

"You know, cockroaches are a funny thing," slurred a languid British accent from behind the tattered door. "The more and more they get away, the more and more you can't _wait _to kill them."

_Alright, _Peter thought bitterly. _No more mister nice guy. _

He quickly jumped to his feet and pulled the shower curtain, partially masking Claire from view. Adam pushed his way through the remnants of the door, pistol still raised, eyes still dancing with sapphire madness.

"How did Nicholson put it?" Adam mused, thrusting an arm violently into the bathroom. "_Here's Johnny_?"

Peter glared and thrust a hand forward, spraying his father with a hailstorm of ice. Adam yelped and was tossed back from the door, hollering at the frostbite eating his skin. Such a blast of raw power had unhinged the door completely, leaving nothing between Adam and his furious son but malice.

Monroe, without hesitation as all villains do, raised his gun yet again and quickly clipped off three bullets towards Peter. Two made their mark, hitting the empath in his left breast and throwing him into the towel rack. Peter yelled in frustration and agony, plunging his fingers into the wounds without even thinking about it, willing the projectiles to get out quicker.

Adam sauntered into the bathroom haphazardly, regeneration and body heat having already melted Peter's last attack. Peter pulled himself to his feet as one of the slugs finally poked out of his flesh, with the other one not far behind. He was still too weak to lunge though, and not quite in the position to use a power.

Well…except one he often overlooked.

The next time Adam, coward that he was, raised his weapon while Peter was down, a shadowy figure ripped the pistol from the immortal's hand. Adam blinked and stared down at his suddenly empty fist.

How had Peter…?

The answer came in the form of Pet_ey, _the silhouetted soul which packed a lot more punch than an opaque absence of light ought to. It shoved Adam against the sink, hand clutching the British man's throat. Adam's jaw dropped wide as he choked, but the bigger problem was the titanium barrel now digging into his chest.

Peter the human had healed from his own gunshot wounds, now flanking his featureless twin. The shadow had passed Peter the gun, which he now had pressed right between Adam's ribs, pointing straight up in a diagonal angle towards the man's indestructible heart.

"I know what you mean about cockroaches," Peter muttered, encouraging his shadow to tighten the grip on theimmortal man's throat. "They never can seem to die."

Adam closed his eyes in preparation for yet another death, but was surprised to find the metal against his chest _and _the shadow holding his throat both abruptly disappear. He peeked open an eyelid and got one glimpse of Peter, before a super-strengthed fist came right at his face.

Adam yelled in pain, feeling Peter's punch _and _the secondhand contact of the sink smashing into this jaw. Before he even had a chance to recover, he was being pulled by the collar again, punched and beaten within an inch of his never-ending life. Peter had never been this ruthless in his life, not since he'd performed the same rough treatment on Sylar at Kirby Plaza.

"I saw _you_ in my dreams!" Peter finally unleashed, shoving the injured man backwards. Adam caught himself on the sink, leaning hunched over the ceramic rim of the vanity, forehead pressing onto the faucet. "I know what you are, Adam!"

Adam tried to turn over, foolishly revealing his torso. And that's when the dominos were finally pushed. Two loud bangs, the last two in the cartridge, tearing through a Horseman's chest tissue. Adam twitched from the force of the impact, but was motionless afterwards, face slumped into the basin of the sink.

Peter didn't expect his father to respond. The bullet wounds were deep and crimson, frozen at the moment. He inhaled a deep breath, chest ballooning, waiting for a response. Or, hopefully, a lack of one.

But he wasn't lucky enough to receive the latter today. Shockingly, Adam raised his head, teeth bared and red-stained in a nasty leer. He grabbed his own lapel and ripped it back, revealing the two wells of marred skin on his chest where Peter had shot him. The wounds stained Adam's shirt with a pair of roses in their mutual blood.

Peter watched on, jaw hanging, as two holy water bullets popped right out of the man he thought to be defeatable. Despite Adam's immortality, wouldn't this have killed him? This was the Horsemens' single weakness, and if Adam fit that bill, then shouldn't he have died?

If Adam wasn't War like Peter's dreams suggested, than who _did _hold the title of their final enemy?

There was no time to contemplate it. The pistol was wrangled expertly from his slack grip and instantly raised. All Peter could see was a gun barrel between his eyes. Adam smirked and pressed the icy metal against Peter's cranium. The empath was too shell-shocked to fight back or muster together any abilities. He recalled his exchange with Claire in the gym, back in Cairo, concerning nerves and fights.

"_I'm not afraid of combat anymore. I've been in so many; it's sort of just another day at work." _

"_If you don't get scared, you're a liar, Peter. I get scared every time I fight someone. Or at least, I did."_

She had been right, and her immobile cadaver lying in the tub was enough to prove it.

"Sure you know, Peter," Adam finally growled right before squeezing the trigger, finishing this mad night.

An explosion of hellfire burst from the tip of the pistol. The slug went through the front of Peter's head and out the back, momentum throwing his body into the bathtub.

Peter was dead on contact, the bullet immediately tearing through vital layers of brain tissue. His body arched from the energy at a back-breaking angle, feet lifting off the floor. For a split second, his corpse was in mid-air, body levitated in a graceful semi-circle. But then time sped up again and gravity had its way with him, tugging him back to right back where he belonged- on top of Claire.

When all was still and the gun smoke had cleared, Peter lay sprawled and lifeless across his equally as dead lover in the bathtub, the white tiles already painted red.

Adam sighed in relief, taking a moment to enjoy the silence of death engulfing the house. He carelessly pocketed the gun and headed out of the bathroom, already making his way to the front door. But not before plucking Hiro Nakamura's antique katana from a pair of cold, limp hands.

"My sword never left your side, Hiro," Adam commented to the corpse, "and you still ended up dead."

And with that final retort, he stepped over the body of his at last conquered rival, off to fry bigger fish than just _carp_.

xxx

The airport in St. Petersburg was pretty conventional for the twenty-first century. Even all the Russian signs had translations in English beneath them. For Adam, it didn't really matter. He read a little bit of the language, enough to get around. He had dabbled in most languages over the years, having spent so much time around the world. The only ones he spoke fluently however were Japanese, English, and Spanish. He'd spoken great French in the nineteenth century, but hadn't been back since the revolution. Reign of Terror…those were the days.

The heavy crowds, probably all there for the holidays, provided a nice pulse of body heat to the open place. Anything that could block out the Arctic cold was invited in by Adam. He couldn't get real frostbite, at least not for long, with his healing powers. Still, that didn't make him any more cold-blooded than your average human. He was definitely a fireplace aficionado.

And hand-warmers. What an innovation. He liked them better than the invention of television, or even the telephone. Honestly, why hadn't they thought to bring hand-warmers on this trip? Ridiculous.

The immortal man- blonde, pale, and blending in with the crowd- glanced openly at his Seiko watch. It was almost time for his visitor's plane to arrive. About damn time. He'd been standing there for hours after driving from Van's house. A thick wool jacket covered the blood-stained shirt he hadn't had time to change. He had been shocked to get through security without ten drug dogs trampling him and sniffing the blood of others soaking his clothes.

Thankfully, he'd been smart enough to leave his katana in the rental car. He'd _certainly _be stopped for that one. And Russian security guards were a lot rougher than American ones. More muscle, more moustaches. Also, Adam had a feeling that this country wasn't quite as politically correct as far as 'police brutality' went either.

So, sitting on a waiting bench for his _expected _to arrive, he sort of wondered about guilt, having nothing better to ponder during this time. Did he feel guilty about slaughtering every one of his comrades, two of which being his sons, and leaving them all to die? Should he have felt guilt about that? As an average con man and a father, yes. But the responsibilities he had at hand _now _didn't leave room for heart. His deal with the devil didn't leave room for anything but success.

Especially since he never really had a choice in the matter. Ever since he escaped from the Company, it had been a perpetual tug of war. He'd made friends with someone way over his head and there was no chance of ever escaping. Adam had been forced to suck up that fact a long time ago- that he could never lead an army of his own, or be a villain in his own right. No, he was nothing but a fox sent out to play fetch, a trained gofer, one of Pavlov's dogs. And instead of bells, Adam's trigger was electricity.

Just when he was about to call the woman he was expecting, he spotted her on the other side of the terminal. She was moving towards him chipperly, blonde hair rippling, tight jacket hugging her curves, lighting-bolt necklace still glinting despite the dim fluorescent lamps overhead. Elle.

Adam waved a hand to get her attention, as if he didn't already have it. He began to start towards her too, like they were in the middle of an old-time movie. Two lovers rushing towards each other in the middle of a crowded terminal. How cliché. And how inappropriate. He and Elle were more business partners than lovers. Just business partners with benefits.

Then again…the insanely deep kiss she gave him as soon as they met through the crowd kinda begged to differ. Adam's arms were wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground and spinning her around as her tongue danced with his. He could feel her long tresses tickling the top of his wrists, as well as the soft eyes of bystanders on his back. A light cluster of applause diffused through the spectators.

Adam eventually set her down on the ground when his lungs burned for air. Elle gazed up at him in fascination and joy, grinning like a child.

"It's about time. I missed you," she breathed, running her hands from his cheeks to his chest in amazement. Adam yearned for her to let the sparks fly; give him a taste of electricity he'd been craving for days. But Elle was still smarter than that. She wouldn't make such a show in a public place.

"I could say the same thing," he murmured back. "Why was your plane so late?"

The young woman linked her arm with his, intentionally pressing a succulent breast into his bicep. Adam shivered and it had nothing to do with the arctic cold.

"The weather," she replied, annoyed. "I picked this place so Peter and his little toy soldiers would be scared by the cold, but it's proving to be a suck-fest for us too."

"The architecture is nice," Adam said cheekily, digging into his pockets for something. He finally pulled out a gold-leafed room key. Elle lit up like one of the Christmas trees decorating the airport. Though unfortunately for Adam, not literally. "And the inns."

Elle's lips curled into a delighted smirk. "Ohhhh. I love hotel rooms. Especially with _you_."

And then, right there in front of two-hundred Russians and tourists, she pressed her lips against his neck in an embarrassingly intimate gesture. Luckily, only Adam knew about the small jolt of electricity she shot right onto one of his pulse points. He bit back a moan at the intense pleasure, breath hitching as his heart stopped- just for a couple seconds as the electricity traveling through his veins like simulated CPR. Adam could feel himself warming below the belt as his life was taken and restored in a split second, the rush intoxicating and arousing him. God, this minx knew how he ticked.

And when Elle had pulled back, she was innocently batting her lashes.

"Good," Adam coughed, shaking sparks from his body. Perhaps this move would distract the crowd's attention from the front of his pants as well. "Took more string-pulling than a puppeteer. You know how hard it is to get a room at this time of year? Nightmare." Adam shook his head.

"Stop complaining. I should be asking _you _what the hell took so long. Was it really that complicated of an assignment?" She was tapping her high-heel impatiently.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Adam replied sardonically. "I didn't know that in addition to blowing the heads off all your competition, I was also supposed to make_ them_ work fasterand magically hunt down every other bloody Horseman with no teleportation or people-finding powers of my own."

"Pssh," Elle tsked. "You're the most manipulative guy ever. Couldn't you just make Peter do it?"

"There's this thing called _trust _involved, my dear," Adam grumbled, though he knew the explanation fell on deaf ears. "I can't just waltz in and demand my way. I have to give and take what I can manage from each of them. Especially this lot. Lord, I'd like to never get Claire to trust me."

"_Claire?_" Elle whipped around, hair spinning dramatically behind her. "Who is _Claire?_"

Adam masterfully managed to keep his face neutral, and thanked God that Elle couldn't read minds (something he often thanked His Holiest for, in fact). Because the last thing he wanted_ her_ to see was the reel of roguish mental fantasies he'd had about the woman, Claire, despite his current distaste for her.

"Claire Bennet. Peter's squeeze. Stubborn girl, but good with a gun, I suppose. Why, is there a problem?"

The forced innocence on his face was ignored as a new type of smirk suddenly bled onto Elle's features.

"Clare Bennet? Her dad worked for my dad," the woman drawled. "Oh, _this _will be interesting."

Before Adam could so much as gape with revelation, Elle shoved her suitcase into his arms, already clip-clopping towards the lobby exit. Adam's eyes narrowed as he set down the rolling luggage and tugged up the handle to pull it behind him. A Russian man passing snickered at him, making _whip _noises and Adam was quick to strike back with a couple rude, two-fingered gestures.

He eventually caught up to his partner with a bit of a jog. "Forget the time it took, and everything else," he suggested breezily. "I still have what you _really_ asked for in the car. That ought to cheer you up, eh?"

Her eyes widened in expectation. She stopped in her tracks and turned on one stiletto heel, suddenly looking much more sugary sweet and polite. _Ah, the rose has unfolded again, _Adam thought triumphantly. It was, after all, a fitting analogy. Elle was covered in thorns from head to the, but she could be beautiful and bursting with life when she so chose.

"You got it? What I asked for?" she asked, appalled. Her smile had elated menace like the Cheshire cat's.

Adam snorted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to lead her down the terminal yet again. "Let's just say that it's shiny, it's ancient, and it's very, very sharp."

xxx

End of Part Two: the Fulcrum of Days

To be continued in Part Three: Apocalypse, Please


	22. Blood, Sweat, and Tears

**Written For Mission Insane Prompt "Depression" **

**Part Three: Apocalypse Please**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"**Blood, Sweat, and Tears**

For what seemed like the_ thousandth_ time on this little round-the-world outing, Peter awoke in despair.

This time, however, it wasn't from a dream. It wasn't from depression. It wasn't from a physical pain. It was more like the memory of his brother's tormented screams of the previous night…the pool of blood he currently resided in…the lights leaving Claire's eyes as she was shot in the head from behind…

Peter let out a moan of recollection, which was soon answered with the familiar relief of a voice.

"Peter! Oh, thank God!"

Adam's shots didn't stick around for long. Because hovering above him with a face like a pale moon was just the woman he wanted to wake up to. Claire, hair streaked with red and eyes full of worry, but she was still his girl. His love for eternal life who knew better than _anyone _what waking up from a bullet felt like.

A huge weight lifted right off his pained spine as soon as they locked gazes. Peter grinned lopsidedly, not knowing much _else _to do at the moment, and managed to sit up.

"Claire," he panted, cupping her bloody cheek in relief. "You're alive."

Claire let out a weak moan and crashed her mouth down on his, smothering him in a grateful kiss. Peter's arms immediately wrapped around her with boa constrictor strength, savoring that tiny sensation of her warmth melting into his.

_Just let me have this one thing…_

Their kiss ended on Peter's reluctant terms.

"What's going on?" he gasped, chest heaving with new life. "Adam…I remember…I remember something with Adam. And you got shot- how'd you come back?"

"It was a shallow wound. Just enough to kill me. The bullet probably slid out." Claire wound an arm under his shoulders and hauled him up, taking them out of the empty bath. "The last thing I remember, I was in your arms in the hallway, and then I woke up in here. You were dead, on top of me. I just pulled the bullet out of _your _skull."

"Thanks," Peter murmured, straightening his back. He knew there was no real need to thank her anymore- saving each other was commonplace for Peter and Claire- but it still felt polite to. "Where's Sylar and Niki? And-?"

He stopped himself from asking about Hiro. No, he _knew _what had happened to his Japanese friend. The memory sunk into him like a toxin. The bullet wounds that had graced Hiro's broad chest, and the stains of red on black.

"I don't know about Hiro." Claire took him by the wrist and helping him climb over the rubble and splintered wood piled in the doorframe. "Sylar and Niki sounded like they were in trouble, but I never ran into them. I-I don't know. I don't know any more than you do."

Peter's throat was very dry. He didn't know whether this was a new sensation evoked by worry or if it was just a result of the regeneration. "Hiro's gone," he choked. "Adam shot him. I saw him…I was there when he…died."

Claire gasped and spun around, jaw dropped. "No," she whispered. "No..."

Peter merely squeezed her hand and bowed his head, now pulling _her _along as she had done with him. They crept down the stairs, noticing that the bloody footprints which marred the steps now ran dry. Peter still didn't know whose shoes they'd come from. Maybe Sylar's. Maybe Hiro's. Then again, maybe Adam's. Adam had big feet like that. Could have been…

Peter's story was proven for Claire's eyes to see at the bottom of the flight, where Hiro Nakamura lay rigid and white. Peter could hear her whimper and he stepped between her and his friend's body, hand still clasping hers, shielding her eyes from the grizzly view.

Once they were past Hiro, they entered a long hallway in the direction Sylar and Niki had been yelling. Hand-holding with Claire wasn't enough to sooth the butterflies in Peter's stomach anymore. He needed her closer, right up against his side, in his arms. He quickly readjusted their position so that they flanked each other, with one of his arms wrapped tightly around her shivering frame. One of her wide hips pressed against him, bone driving against bone through their clothes.

A horror-movie mood of suspense lingered in the air with every step. Each stride took them another inch closer to Sylar and Niki. The results of which could be a joyous, wonderful occasion, or it could make Peter empty the contents of his stomach onto Van's nice floors.

Two polar ends of the same spectrum. But at least, no matter what he found, he'd have Claire at his side to help him get through it- or to enjoy it with. Either way, Claire would be there…yes…

He held her tighter, so tight that she actually squirmed in discomfort. Peter halfheartedly loosened his clench, letting his arm simply rest on her shoulders instead of holding them in an iron grip.

There was a room at the end of the hall that made him stop in his tracks. A puddle of spilt blood, dried and maroon, stained the hardwood before the entrance. Peter's breath hitched so violently that he nearly coughed, and he felt Claire tense up too. Melancholy waves of energy absolutely radiated off this hall. Bad chi. If Peter believed in the paranormal, his creep-dar would've been off the charts.

"Whatever we find in there," Claire murmured, clasping his hand in her own as she read his body language flawlessly, "…I'm here, okay?"

Actions spoke louder than words and he _knew _she'd border him the whole long way. But such a statement was nonetheless heartfelt, reassuring. If the bloodstain on the floor was foreshadowing enough, then the fact stood that Peter lost everything in his life that he deemed important. All the people. Except Claire.

Which made her even more sacred than usual.

Peter pulled her slowly towards the ominous room, forcing every step. Nerves attacked his insides like hungry moths, eating away and leaving gaping, rotted holes. A layer of sweat was starting to form between his hand and Claire's, but that didn't unlock their clasp. Claire was not letting go of him, not going to let him forget her presence. Come hell or high water or spilt life of siblings.

They were inches away from the room. A crane of their necks would confirm the answers they already knew, but neither wanted to take the plunge. Peter looked down at Claire, eyes softened with sorrow.

"I know what we're gonna see." He closed his eyes. "And seeing it still won't explain it."

"Adam betrayed us," Claire answered. "That's what happened."

"Still." Peter peeked through his lids, eyes cold and free of tears. "I don't know. About anything. What he is. Why he would stab us in the back. What his motives are. He revealed his true colors, but that only led us on the path to more _questions." _

"That's life," Claire muttered back, giving his hand a squeeze. "We'll never have all the answers. Even in a couple centuries from now."

A long sigh racked Peter's lithe frame, bending his body at cracked angles. And then, regaining his composure, he drew in a lengthy breath which re-inflated his being.

"Let's do it."

Claire nodded, teeth worrying at her bottom lip the entire time. Peter took the first step into the doomsday room, head bowed, and Claire was right on his heels. Their gazes rose in unison, breath hitching in time. But it was Peter who fell to the floor as the horror overwhelmed him.

He buried his sobs deep with the assistance of Claire's comforting hand, which fell to rest peacefully on his shoulder. Normally, he'd feel ashamed to lose control so easily. But in his defense, seeing the massacred body of one's brother and sister-in-law would make_ anyone_ collapse into a fog of gloom.

xxx

Adam's yells of pained pleasure earned him and Elle a 'quiet down' knock from the neighbors, but such orders fell on deaf ears. The queen of ice was strattled upon her foxy lover, electricity flying around them like a lightning storm.

Their hotel had golden keys but torn carpet and a cracked shower. Luckily Elle didn't mind the shoddiness. They spent most of the time in the single bed anyway, and if the linins were clean before, they certainly weren't anymore.

"You always get to be so…controlling…" Adam wheezed. His nails dug into Elle's bare hips, puncturing the skin. She cried out and dramatically spread her arms, blue sparks exploding from her pores. They sprinkled upon Adam like electric acid rain, singeing him in minute spots from head to toe.

"Because I'm more powerful," she spat in reply, pressing her palms to his chest and sending a bolt of extreme CPR right to his heart. The immortal screamed and bucked, hips thrusting violently up. Elle moaned at the reward, twisting her hips to bury him even deeper inside of her.

"Just this once, though." Sweat-slicked, Adam propped himself on two elbows, eyes closing at the pleasure of Elle biting his neck. "I wonder what it would be like to have my way with _you."_

"Dream on," the girl scoffed against his skin. Adam felt a pleasurably painful jolt of electricity, _literal _electricity go straight to his loins. He fought to pursue his argument, wondering…what was he talking about again?

Oh right. Control. "I do believe I've earned it, haven't I?" he insisted. "I took care of Edmund and Leelee. Not Orson, but we'll catch that snake eventually. I killed those little toy soldiers that were after you."

He didn't give her a chance to answer, or even to process his request. Instead, in a rare show of fortitude (at least around _this _woman) Adam grabbed her by the shoulders and flipped them over, pinning her to the bed. She screamed and thrashed in a cocoon of voltage, but that didn't stop Adam from being clearly stronger than her.

"Got you the sword…" he breezily continued, now resuming his thrusts. "Can't forget that."

Elle continued to squirm under him, but there was no deferring a lofty man with muscles if you're a five foot tall pixie. When the kitten of war eventually realized that her temper tantrum hadn't swayed Adam in the least, she huffed and threw her arms over her head, slender fingers grasping the rails of the bedpost.

It was a gesture that she intended to convey annoyance, but Adam saw it more as submittance. She could whine all she wanted- but actions spoke louder than words. Despite their uncommon position, her hips continued to arch up in need for him. For _him. _

Looks like he wasn't the only one who liked to be dominated.

Adam tilted his head mildly, interested, and slowed his movements down to casual pistoning. Almost as if they were making love over tea and brunch. The key words being _making love, _which made Elle freeze, looking down at their bodies tangled in the sheets.

"Curious?" Adam inquired wryly. Elle's lips pursed, completing an expression of…disappointment. Like something wasn't quite right. In a passive-aggressive way.

Which definitely wasn't _Elle. _'Passive' wasn't a word in her lexicon.

Adam halted in his pleasuring, frowning. "What?"

And as quick as she had left, the familiar Elle returned. "Did I tell you to stop?!" she snapped, rearing up and shooting a storm of blue sparks to dance with their tangled legs. Adam grimaced but obeyed, following orders at the snap of a finger once more.

Still, one final sardonic comment did manage to sneak out of him before he slunk back into compliant thrusting. "I think I quite like this position. The scenery is spectacular."

"Enjoy it while you can," she grumbled, biting him on the collar. He growled. "Cause in two days, when that other Horseman is dead and I'm queen of the world…trust me. You'll never top again."

xxx

When Claire came back from the bathroom, Peter had disappeared.

With the previous events of the day still lingering in her consciousness, she immediately felt fear. The blonde clumsily ran down the hallway, gaze scrutinizing every room she passed. No Peter.

She was distantly aware that her spaz attack was probably in vain. It was a big house. Peter was a man off a leash. He was around. But a sixth sense, a lover's intuition so to speak, told her that _something _wasn't right. Claire could be relatively certain that her astute friend wasn't in danger, but _something _remained to be wrong.

Something.

The young woman followed that internal tug on her gut- a tether to Peter that went through her navel, meandered in spirals through her insides, knotted around her heart. If she took a deep breath and relaxed, she could follow the instinct like a trail of breadcrumbs. And eventually, after stepping over what seemed like miles of polished marble and antique mahogany, Hansel and Gretel led her home.

Claire found Peter outside on the Roman steps. It was just as cold as all the other Arctic days, as was Peter, but he neglected his jacket and boots. The only insulation draped across his body was his pensive shadow, shape shifted into a sort of blanket.

"Peter?" Claire whispered tentatively. Every snowflake felt like a wasp sting. Luckily, she had slippers to protect her feet from direct frostbite, but Peter's soles were bare and painted cold for Mother Nature to torment. Claire couldn't even imagine such an ache.

Peter's shoulder blades rotated in acknowledgment, but he still sat curled up, knees to his chest, eyes on the St. Petersburg horizon. The Winter Palace was visible from Van's house.

"Peter?" Claire knelt beside him, instinctively huddling towards his body for warmth. But even Peter's pulsing, indestructible blood couldn't emit enough heat to _dent _the brittle throb of the temperature. His remaining clothes were still torn, his forehead and hair and everywhere else caked with blood from yesterday. Claire nearly worried that this temporary death had turned back to clock, right back to their emotionless revival in San Francisco.

When he finally made a noise, a bit of a low whimper if she had to describe it, his head bowed as if all support had gone out from underneath it. Only at that angle did Claire see the salty, frozen crystals clinging to his ashen cheeks.

"Why don't you come inside?" she suggested, wrapping a comfortable arm around him. Petey, still draped across his host, rested between her skin and his shoulders. The shadowflesh felt silky under her palm. "Come on, we can _talk _about this. We can figure something out."

He was anesthetized inside and out, opening his mouth to speak and merely letting out empty air. Claire's chest tightened in sympathy and she slung herself even further over him, trying to somehow wringthe warmth back into his body. Even when they'd scorned each other…even when Osaka was left in ruins…even when they'd all almost died in Cairo…through all that turmoil, Peter had stayed straight-backed and firm, never shedding a tear, at least to her knowledge. But in an instance like this, a moment of utmost desolation, she couldn't hold him at fault for crying.

Claire took his arm and slung it over her neck, helping him to a standing position. He was broken, and disheartened, and covered in crimson, but he managed to make his feet move across the frozen patio.

"Peter," she eventually murmured in gentle chide. "I'm not Niki."

He seemed to get the message, even without verbal reply, and stiffened his frame. Claire sighed as his body weight shifted off of her, and she could feel her lightly bruised shoulders start to heal.

"Inside," she directed superfluously as they were now arm-in-arm. She talked simply to hear the words, to reassure herself as well as him that _they _at least were survivors. They were still there. "Let's get cleaned up, okay? A bath'll feel good. Then we can talk about what to do…"

Peter numbly followed her into the mansion, trudging with every step, wavering on the grand staircase, the cracked soles of his feeling sticky against the rich marble floors. They didn't speak a word as they meandered through a labyrinth of ornamental eggs and suits of armor and posters of Russian royalty, all this time trying to search out a washroom that _wasn't _massacred by Adam Monroe.

Eventually, Peter and Claire found themselves in a spacious tiled room on the west wing. A large Jacuzzi tub occupied the corner, jets placed every half-foot or so around the rim. Claire sighed in contentment and guided Peter to the spacious basin, his body following her motions without much input. The blonde girl's eyes fell to the floor and she couldn't help but notice Peter's shadow sliding behind him on the floor, mated with hers. For a moment, she was startled and worried that Petey had disappeared. But on further inspection, Claire saw that the movements weren't _quite _aligned, because Petey was faking reality and he was too damn tired and robotic at the moment to really put forth a hundred percent.

Claire sat Peter the Human down on the lip of the golden tub and released him from her hold, hesitating momentarily in the fear that he'd simply fall over without her support. Like a plastic mannequin. Claire shuddered at the analogy and began preparing the bath, cranking on all of the taps to low settings so the noise of rushing water wouldn't overwhelm them.

While the basin filled, Claire went about her next task- peeling off Peter's clothes. He didn't protest, unshockingly, but he wasn't exactly helpful either. His face was expressionless, gaunt. Comatose, even, a little bit. Claire was distantly reminded of _Ferris Bueller's Day Off, _which was such a stupid and laughably ridiculous thing to be remembering at a moment like this. Still, she thought of Alan Ruck's character, Cameron. How glazed his face had become, unblinking and appalled, when he crashed his dad's Ferrari.

That's exactly what Peter looked like. As if he was sixteen years old, had driven Arthur's Lincoln Towncar right through the window of Petrelli Mansion, and his parents were on their way home.

Claire sniffed absently as she continued mechanically with her duty, his mechanical aura seeping into her own stamina. She took in a deep breath and forced herself to be the strong one here. It wasn't her brother, her best friend in the whole world who'd just been killed. It wasn't her sister-in-law. It wasn't her most loyal comrade and mentor. And it certainly wasn't her father who'd done it all in cold blood.

Angst plucked a melancholy tune on Claire's heartstrings, but looking at The Big Picture, she was merely a bystander. The pile of bodies downstairs was an attack against _Peter _and soley Peter.There was no way she could possibly _realate _to this, so she needed to simply be there as a torch of comfort.

Once she had him stripped of clothes, sitting naked and numb as the bath's humidity started to saturate the air, Claire stopped her fussing and took a good, hard _look _at him.

The elasticity in his face had melted, leaving his ageless skin sagging like dead weight. Such atrophy bared all his little flaws, the lopsidedness of his entire body. Peter normally looked like a Michelangelo statue- imperfect and human, but angelic and powerful all the same. His animated expressions masked his little hang-ups, normally.

Now though…one eye bigger than the other…crooked lips…wiry hair…bowed legs, one on each side of Claire...the ribs sticking out over his appendix. It was all, she was ashamed to say, so ugly. Not her Peter, not her handsome Peter.

But he was a car crash. She couldn't look away.

Finally, in a sign of life, Peter's glazed eyes flitted up to meet hers, eyelids drooping like a lazy Basset Hound's. Claire's chest tightened and she pressed her forehead against his, like a mother and a lover all wrapped up into one tiny blonde package.

She felt wetness on her cheek and knew it had to be his tears, because she was far to wrung out and exhausted and numb to be crying. Peter shifted his face against hers so his nose brushed her cheek, and then he brought up his hands to start undoing the buttons of her blouse.

Claire drew in a breath, nervous, tentative- all of which surprised her, because she loved Peter and he loved her and they'd seen each other like this far too many times before, so what was the big deal…?

Maybe it was the glum lack of assertiveness he exhibited as he undressed her. A purely un-carnal, un-sexual level of _rawness_. Raw emotion. Claire didn't stop him, didn't want to stop him, but a part of her still felt like they were doing this for the very first time.

Claire reluctantly pulled away to twist out of her jeans once her shirt was shed, saving Peter the struggle. She went back into the bare cradle of his body and he slid his arms around her, nimble fingers finding the clasp of her bra and freeing her from that item of clothing as well.

A shimmy later and she was as nude as he, resting tiredly against him- she standing, he still sitting on the rim of the tub. Claire reached behind him found the main knob to the bath, which she twisted, shutting off the faucets.

The miniature pool behind them fell to equilibrium as silence swallowed the room whole. Only now, when the jets were shut off and the thud of water against tile was hushed, could Claire hear the small cries convulsing from Peter's throat.

He inhaled sharply, and that one breath broke him like a snapped twig. Hiccups turned into sobs and Claire cringed, face tilted up towards the heavens in prayer. _Oh God, please let him be okay. Please give us some way to fix this. Find a way to bring everyone back…don't do this to Peter; he doesn't deserve any of this. He's your saint. Start treating him like it. _

No holy sign or magical miracle flew down from the sky, and the idealistic part of Claire couldn't help but be disappointed. However, there was no time to dwell on hope and prayers. Peter was solid and human and shattered in her arms, his dry palms of sandpaper molding to her hips. Claire let out a snivel of compassion and held him back, held his cheek to her bare breast as his cries of torment utterly replaced the sound of thundering taps.

xxx

Adam's face was half buried in the ripples of bed sheets, a sole blue eye able to peek at Elle through the material. Her naked frame was admirable, even with the ten foot distance between them and the blurry film fogging over his iris. Straw-colored hair shimmying over her elastic spine, shifting like the skirt of a dashboard hula figurine. Long legs that went all the way up to her hips, and looked even better with high heels. Which she, naturally, put on _first, _and then grabbed her actual outfit. Adam let out a low murmur into the pillow. After four centuries of _thinking, _and _using, _and coming up with leadership ideas, it was nice for, once in a lifetime, to sit back and be someone else's puppet. It gave him something to do, but it also gave him an outline of a plan while still allowing him crafty leeway. Working for Elle was pretty much the perfect job, even if he had to…well…sell his soul, so to speak.

She pulled on her strapped red dress and grabbed her lightning bolt necklace off the bedside table, long fingernails fiddling unsuccessfully with the clasp. Her teeth gritted as she struggled and Adam sighed, knowing the stairstep pattern of Elle's frustration. First, there was annoyance. Then, mild swearing and fidgeting. And last, an explosion of blue light that incinerated about everything within a five foot radius.

The immortal pushed himself off the mattress and swinged his bare feet so they touched the carpet. Adam stood, towering over her in six foot glory, blonde hair remaining ruffled from their morning of passion.

"Here, darling," he offered gently, holding out a hand and stepping behind her. "I'll get it."

She let out a slight scoff and thrust the necklace into his open palms. Adam smiled and took a side of the gold chain delicately in each hand, crossed his arms over her petite head, and lowered the choker to her pale neck. With the deftness that only an artist or a welder could manage, he effortlessly threaded the clasp on the first attempt.

Elle's hand instinctively went to her collar, covering the shining pendant. She caught a glimpse of Adam over her shoulder, still stark naked and smelling excitably of sweat and love-making. Her nose wrinkled at the thought. He was fun to screw with, but the last time they'd tangled in bed, Elle wasn't exactly comfortable. Being _under _him for once…under his slow-moving, gentle body as he whispered sweet words she would be a fool to believe…

It had never been 'like that' for them. It was always just sex. Sex and business and a dash of company. But the emotion welling in Adam's eyes when his body crescendoed in sync with hers was enough to make doubt churn her stomach. She didn't care about hurting his feelings; just, the whole idea of _love _made her want to stick her finger down her throat.

He hadn't said he loved her though, and he never had. He at least spared her that gag-inducer.

"Wanna put on some clothes any time soon?" she retorted, brushing past him with a dramatic flip of her blonde tresses. Adam's smile remained humble and warm.

"If you insist," he shrugged, gracefully sweeping his dark jeans off the floor and shaking out the wrinkles. Elle fought not to shake her head at his instant devotion. Adam was not an indecisive man. He was cunning and manipulative and had spent four hundred freaking years making his own decisions.

But on the other hand, he could be easily persuaded. He was her fox- sly, handsome, and quick, but also irrevocably loyal and obedient. A toy at her side, but only _her _side.

No time for that though. Elle's attention had wavered from her astute lover. For now, she only had eyes for the sword resting in the corner. The black-sheathed, leather hilted, godsend-branded katana of Adam's long lost past.

Adam tugged the pants up his narrow hips, studying her as she picked up the sword.Elle's brow was furrowed in curious interest, as if she wasn't quite sure what she was holding in her hands.

"This thing…" She slowly pointed to the brass helix emblem nailed to the grip. "It looks kinda like my necklace."

Adam tilted his head at her comment and stepped over, carefully adding his hands to the mix too. Her palms were open, as were his, and both of them supported the katana like a shelf.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed. "I can see it as a lightning bolt, yes…"

The young woman snorted and snatched the sword away from him, now holding it tightly to her breast. "Well, what _else _wouldit be?"

"It's Japanese," Adam quietly replied. "My alphabet is a tad rusty, but I remember it means _great talent." _His face was stern and ghostlike all of a sudden as the memories of Orson's in Osaka flooded his mind. Elle was a Horseman (or Horse_wo_man. Whatever). But the whole _goal _of sending Adam with Peter and Co. was to take down her three supposed allies- Leelee Lang, Orson Huxley, and Edmund O'Connell. All of equal strength as the clever Miss Bishop, and Elle didn't like being _equal. _

She was _special, _dammit. She hadn't 'manifested'- she had been born with her powers. And her daddy made her sure of that _significance _since the day she burned down her first house.

"Great talent." Elle's teeth shone brightly as they bit her bottom lip. That curvaceous mouth turned up into a delighted sneer. "I wonder if it'll come naturally."

"Your power?" Adam frowned, confused.

The woman rolled her eyes and clouted him lightly on the bare arm, brushing past him once again. She quickly answered, clipped, "No! The sword! I wonder if it's a part of me. Like I already know how to use it, somewhere deep down."

"Maybe that's why you have me," Monroe suggested, following her over to the other side of the room. He slid his hands to mold her shapely hips, pressing a nip on the back of her neck. "You can learn from me."

"Yeah right. When was the last time you actually used one of these? The American Revolution?"

"Don't be smart. The _French _Revolution. Much more recent," Adam breezily replied. Rounding to her front, he let his hands subtly slide back onto the sword, smirking at the feel of familiar metal and hide under his palms. "It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget. Especially if you've got regenerative memory."

Elle wasn't a woman who liked to be taught things. She was more of a follower than a leader, yes, robotically brainwashed by the Company…but that didn't scrub any rust into her dignity. Especially the idea of being instructed by the man who was working for her_._

Then again, the idea wasn't all too dim-witted. Elle was haughty, but when push came to shove, she often made the right decisions regarding for the greater good.

Or, in this case, the greater evil.

"Okay, old man," she smirked. "Teach me your worst."

Adam, still keeping one hand on the sword, paced back around her starboard side and rested his chin on her shoulder. He lifted his arm, bringing the sword and herarm along with it, pointing the blade directly perpendicular to their bodies.

"This is the sharp end," he murmured inches away from her ear. "You can penetrate things with it."

A scoff thrummed the tendons in her throat and the vibration transferred to Adam's cheek.

"I think I've got that part," Elle muttered. "How do I _attack _someone?"

For a moment, Adam's expression morphed into a frown of deep thought. He slipped around her to face her front-to-front once again, eyes scanning from the tip of the sword to the top of Elle's head.

"You've got a petite frame. Not much bodily strength. Your real power comes from your ability, which you well know how to use, I'm betting." He gave her a pointed look, and she smirked a little in return. "Metal is an excellent conductor of electricity. Perhaps War was not blessed with a sword, but a lightning rod."

"Huh." Elle arched an eyebrow and brought the sword up to her face, inspecting it with interest. "Lightning rod, eh?"

Adam stood in anticipation, waiting for her to stab him with it, try it out, _experiment _like she so wanted to. But astonishingly, Elle did nothing of the sort. She merely turned around, eyes still studying the fascination of the katana, every little grain of steel.

"I'm not going to kill you," she eventually remarked, glancing at him from over her shoulder. When Adam put on a 'play dumb' expression, she explained, "You had on your 'confused' face. You were wondering why I didn't fry your insides."

"I was mildly surprised," he admitted. "I've been on fire dozens of times."

Elle's laugh was mirthless. She turned on her heel, facing him with steely blue eyes, a high bust, and rugged cheekbones. "You do realize that this sword will cut through anything? And whatever it cuts through _won't _grow back?"

The immortal man blanched. "Even me?"

She scoffed. "Oh, please. Even _me. _So don't let me fall on it."

"Alright, Antony," Adam quipped, smiling at the Shakespeare reference that went over Elle's head. He stepped over to remove the lethal object from her feminine hands before delicately setting it down upon bed stand, blade steered towards the wall. "I'll just have to teach you without the sword itself."

"I dunno," she growled, slithering her way into his arms somehow. Adam wasn't quite sure how she ended up there. One minute she was on the other side of the room, and the next, he had an armful of sparkle. "Maybe we should work on some cardio first."

"You are insatiable," he chuckled as she pushed him back onto the mattress. But a nice electric shock to the abs reminded him that, yeah…so was he.

xxx

"I remember the day my father died. It was noon. Nathan was the one who told me, right before we were about to testify to the DA." Peter's voice was flat, monotonous. His shadow sat on the vanity, elbows on its knees, chin in its hand. Looking much like _the Thinker, _except more bored.

"Not even twenty-four hours later, we were picking out a coffin."

Claire looked at him sympathetically, but didn't stop in her gentle strokes, rubbing the wet washcloth from his temple down to his collar bone. For the second time in the past hour, she and Peter shared a tub. Luckily, this was a bit more pleasant than the previous encounter, seeing as they were…alive and all.

She'd heard this story before, and he knew it, so he didn't aim to hold her attention. Just mumbled and ranted on about nothing specifically while Claire gradually cleaned him up.

She dipped the cloth back into the water surrounding them, letting the blood seep out into the rapidly pinking bath. Disgusting. This wasn't the best idea- cleaning off such a copious amount of grime in the confines of a still-watered basin. But Peter didn't seem to mind, so neither did she.

"You cried, though," she said, bringing the half-clean washcloth back up to his face. There was a particularly stubborn spot on his cheek that just wouldn't come off. "I remember you telling me that."

"I was a nurse a week out of college. Of course I cried. Nathan didn't, though. Not until a week later. He said it had to…_sink in." _Peter scoffed and shook his head, inadvertently turning his face away from Claire. "I cried over that old man as soon as I heard, and I didn't like him at all. And now Sylar's…and it took…"

"Shh…" Claire lowered the cloth and replaced it with her hand, wrinkled and ivory from the prolonged exposure to the water. "It's normal. It's more of a shock."

"Or maybe I'm just not as sensitive to death as I used to be." Peter's voice was bitter. Ugly. Claire flinched. This side of him reminded her too much of the soulless Peter she'd had to deal with earlier that week, and she had to glance over her shoulder in paranoia just to make sure that Petey was still there, perched on the rim of the porcelain sink.

On a more extreme note, Claire half-wished she could find the Haitian to erase _that _part of her memory like a magnet to a computer console. Just wipe it all clean. Every bad thought and lack of love she'd harbored towards Peter. It was worth forgetting.

"It doesn't make any sense though," Peter suddenly grumbled, brow furrowing in the most animated of expressions she'd seen yet that day. Claire's face shifted into one of curious intrest and she pulled away, studying him. Something in her tone suggested that he _wasn't _talking about his apathy anymore.

"Hmm?"

Peter swiveled his neck back to look at her again. The sides of his eyes crinkled with confused deliberation.

"Everyone should be alive. They should live through this. They can't be dead if they're alive in the future."

He slumped a little, body sliding down the pale tile of the bath. Claire tilted her head, dissecting his words, wringing yet another cup of blood out of the rag.

"What do you mean, in the _future_?" She raised her hand and reapplied the washcloth, now moving on to clean his chest. He flinched a little, smirking, when she rubbed one of his mid-ribs. She glanced up and met his eyes in playfulness. Hewas ticklish there.

"Like…how can you know where they'd be? You haven't been there, have you? At least not recently."

Peter moistened his lips and looked a little weary, cheeks starting to turn as red as the bathwater they were lounging in.

"Actually…I did." Off Claire's appalled gape, he quickly expounded, "The day I went to Barcelona, to the holy water fountains. I dunno. I was just thinking about you, and the Horsemen, and my powers were all messed up. I accidentally jumped to the future instead of back to Cairo."

Claire was the catatonic one now, the weight of such a revelation threatening to break her indestructible shoulders. Her face didn't betray anger. There was no reason to be _mad_ at him_, _except for not telling her about this, but Claire wasn't so petty. However, excitement did bubble in the base of her gut, wondering _oh what could he have seen. _

Which was basically what she asked next. "How far? And where to? And what was there?"

"Thirty-five years. Manhattan. Us."

"You're still hanging around me in three decades?" Claire winked, abandoning the dirty washcloth and rubbing him down with her bare palms. She sprinkled a handful of water over his black hair, slicking the wild wet locks back from his forehead. "I guess there's just no ditching you."

"Guess not," he smiled back; a sweet, secret little _I know something you don't _smile that Claire had recognized a few times recently. She thought back to his letter, where he'd spilled his heart out so elegantly with the ink of a pen. And even more specifically, to Angela Petrelli's engagement ring. He'd mentioned that he'd give it to her as a keepsake. She hadn't thought much of the offer at the time- just an heirloom through her family, right? Her grandmother's ring. Passed from Angela to her "son," and then to her granddaughter.

But all those covert little glances and smiles…Claire wondered, connecting the dots, if maybe…maybe that ring was a little more significant than she had first presumed. And not nearly as familial.

"What were we doing in the future?" Claire asked coyly, eyes trailing downward in self-consciousness.

Peter's smile dropped, remembering Sylar's fate. He said, tightly but sincerely, "We're fantastic. I promise. But I won't spoil it for you, Claire. I'll just say that Niki and Micah were there. I guess you could say Sylar was there too. They all make it through this. They grow old. And that's what I don't understand. How they can be dead if they're supposed to live on with us?"

Claire offered him a weak shrug, helpless. "Maybe Adam magically decides to be good again and he comes back and heals everybody?"

Peter snorted at the concept. "I've seen stranger."

Then, like the crawling stain of burgundy that poisoned the tiles around Peter and Claire, a realization dawned on him. Yes…Adam…and Adam's blood, the same shade and genes that had clung to Peter's skin and was now washed away with Claire's gentle caresses…

"God…I love you, Claire," Peter said in awed respect. He abruptly rose to his feet before stumbling naked out of the tub and grabbing a terrycloth robe from the corner of the room. Petey was right behind him, leaping off the sink with lightness that no human being could manage. The shadow slithered after its host without acknowledging Claire in the least, its opaque form buzzing with revelation as well. It'd been a while since the young woman had felt _this _left out of the loop.

"What…?" Claire gaped, following him, finding a spare dressing gown in the linen closet. "Peter!"

The empath's wet body left a slick trail despite his robe, making it easy for the girl to follow him. What the hell was he up to? One minute, they'd been musing over Adam, and the next, he looked like he'd just seen a ghost. A friendly ghost, who'd snapped its fingers and poof!- shown him the meaning of life.

Claire mentally ran over all the things they'd previously talked about, but none of them struck her as a trigger. Certainly not Adam, right? Adam was miles away, turned to the dark side of the Force. She had been joking, albeit grimly, in the suggestion that he could possibly help them now…

_Unless. Huh. _Claire arched an eyebrow, still prancing after Peter's slippery path. _He could maybe go back in time, ask Adam for blood _then _and bring it back with him. But would that create some sort of like, paradox? Would the blood still work? And how could he convince Adam to do that?_

They hurried down the stairs, and rounded the corner to the mansion's opposite wing. Claire followed briskly behind him, and wasn't surprised when he turned into the billiards room, where the bodies of their friends had been so gruesomely piled up.

"Peter, what's going on!?" she unsuccessfully called again, entering the chamber as well. The sight of Sylar, Niki, and Hiro's corpses made her stomach lurch a little, but she was more distracted by Peter, who was rapidly ripping off his brother's clothes and going through the pockets.

Her brain just about shut down. This definitely didn't look like time traveling.

She opened her mouth to demand an explanation, but Peter beat her to it. He finally found what he was looking for in Sylar's skinny jeans. A six-inch long Plexiglas vial filled halfway with deep crimson.

"Adam's blood," Peter breathlessly described. "I stole three vials of Adam's blood and gave it all to Sylar. It goes back to that future visit, you know? He…he was dying in the future and it made me want him to live forever, like us. But two of the vials already got used- one when we saved Van, and the other when Sylar teleported here. This is the only one left."

Shock and relief and a dozen other emotions hacked into Claire's sensors like a virus, overtaking the cells and tendons in her face. She took a step forward, fingers stretching towards the vial. Peter approached her as well, letting her touch the object in his hand. As if to make sure it was real.

"How many will it heal? There's not much left."

Claire's heart contracted as she watched the relief sink off Peter's face in a landslide. He clearly hadn't thought about that- he just had an idea. Which, pity the boy, was typical of Peter. Having a wonderful dream of a plan, but not realizing the lack of practicality until it was too late.

Stopping a meteor via super-strength and crossed fingers sprang to Claire's mind. She loved Peter of course, and he was a good leader because people liked working for him. However, he wasn't exactly the smartest _planner _in the world. That's what Sylar was for- the brains of the operation.

Claire cocked her head towards the sky in revelation. It was obvious that Sylar and Peter were connected, but she'd never recognized how well they complimented each other.

Sylar alwaysknew what to say, or how to look at a situation. He wasn't a spontaneous man, never knowing how to act. Yet his mind was wise and his tongue silver and his ideas bright. On the other side of the spectrum, Peter was the one who always knew what to _do, _though words were often knots in his mouth, coming out in a garbled, awkward bundles. So together, they really were one full person- a person who could win in a battle of chess but still kick-box the shit out of supervillians. A person who could woo the heart of a kindly widow, or a crime-fighting cheerleader. A person who could not only feel the emotions around him, but also see how his comrades ticked, and how he could make things _better._

She knew Peter wanted to bring back his brother more than anything in the world. But he was the do-er and this was the most diplomatic he could manage to be.

"I don't know," he finally answered, head bowing. "One. Maybe two, if we're careful."

"Not three?"

Peter's voice came out in an undertone. "Not three."

"Well…we can't _do _this," Claire immediately declared, crossing her hands over her chest. There was no makeup on her face and her hair was wet and unstyled. Even then, she managed to look old. "We can't decide which of our friends gets to live and who gets to die!"

"Shh, please," Peter begged, rubbing a palm over his face. "Let's just weigh our options here for a moment okay? We're saving _all _of them. We've just gotta decide who comes back _first_."

With that notion in mind, Claire's protests at least halted for the time being. Her mouth was screwed up in thought and she watched Peter as he strode back and forth across the room. Peter was the antsy type- a pacer. Claire, on the other hand, was a statue while in deep thought. Completely still, eyes flitting, cogwheels working behind green eyes.

"Who would be the most okay with dying?" she finally offered, hating the morbidness of such a question. Who would be okay with dying…pssh. Who wasokay with dying at_ all_?

"Hiro," Peter replied automatically. "That's easy. He wasn't afraid of it, but I know Sylar and Niki were." The remembrance of his friend's actual demise, however, made Peter backtrack. "Still. It was a horrible death. He got killed by the one man it would be a total dishonor to die by. And from a 'world-saving' standpoint, his ability could probably be the most useful."

"Hiro doesn't have any attachments, though," Claire mused, neither for nor against bringing back Nakamura. Simply stating the facts. "Niki has a son, Peter. And I know you want to bring back Sylar. Don't lie- you love him the most."

"I do," he admitted. It'd be moot to argue that point. Sylar was his flesh and blood. "But I don't know how I could bring back Sylar without bringing back Niki. He can't live without her ; it'd kill him all over again. Hiro, though…he deserves so much better. And we need him." He buried his hands in damp hair, sitting down hopelessly into one of the decadent Russian recliners, crafted circa 1787. "God, Claire. What am I supposed to do?"

Claire made a soothing noise and sat down next to him on the armrest, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. "Do what you feel is right. I know that some part of you already knows the answer. Like you said, we're gonna save all of them eventually. But for now..."

She could tell Peter was ignoring her. Instead of taking in her words, her lover's eyes were fixated on the opposite wall's mantelpiece. Resting upon it were several framed pictures, a deck of cards, and a stack of traditional dice.

"No. You were right to begin with, Claire. We can't decide who lives and who dies." Peter frowned deeply, standing up and stepping over the bodies to approach the mantelpiece. He wrapped his right hand around a single die, and looked at Claire from over his shoulder, holding the game piece on his palm for her to see.

"It's up to destiny. To God."

Claire shook her head, knowing what he was about to do. What he was about to leave up to _chance. _It was a fair idea, yes, and how else were _they _supposed to decide…she knew all of that, she knew it logically. But something about this idea couldn't help but make her feel sick to her stomach.

"One and two are Niki. Three and four are Hiro. Five and six are Sylar." Peter swallowed and turned towards a card table in the center of the room. He tightened his fist around the die and readied his hand, already swinging it up and down. "I'll roll twice. We can stretch Adam's blood to heal two people."

"Peter," Claire said meaninglessly. She wasn't going to stop him. She didn't have a good enough reason to stop him, at least yet. All she wanted to know was, "Are you sure?"

He shut his eyes as he opened his hand, sending the ultimate die tumbling across the desk. And that the closest thing to a _yes_ he could manage.

xxx

**To be continued…**


End file.
